The Ringbearer's Baymax
by The Deepest Wells
Summary: Girl . . . doesn't fall . . . is pulled into Middle Earth by Gandalf. Too typical to be glorious, and too different to be normal. "You are here to comfort and heal him, not to fight and not to speak." "So I'm his Baymax." Frodo/OC; AU storyline, not an LotR script repeat. Please review! :) Updates Saturday nights.
1. Idaho

**Welcome! I'm aware that I write strange stories, but bear with me: they shall become more sane in the future, I just have to regurgitate my weirdness into the world before I start acting civilized with fanfiction. :D  
This story was inspired by my thought of, "What if a girl from our age wasn't a warrior and wasn't as thin or pretty as a stick? What then?" And I am obsessed with Frodomances (my apologies to those that find such things an abomination), so I decided to mash the two together. This story is not as weird as Frodo, My Precious, and not as angsty as One Ring to Desire Him, and not as long or as fantasy-ish as Blood of Malice.  
It's just it. :) So enjoy! Review, if you would please-suggestions for improvement are appreciated, as are any other thoughts such as "Wow . . . uhhhh this is kinda interesting" even if you have nothing else to say except for something denoting that my stories are strange and disorienting. :)  
Read on if you wish, turn back if you don't want to experience this rough draft. My stories will be edited, i promise. :)**

So maybe I asked for an adventure, but like all readers that want to go on an adventure, I didn't think to come back and never see the world the same way again. I never asked for scars, love fought for and lost; I did indeed lose it.

That all starts on a fairly normal day. I finished my four-year degree some months ago, and now have a rather relaxed life with only a job and a little apartment to look after. With any luck, I only have nine more months before I can afford to start paying rent on a real home, and start attending that expensive college in Vermont that I dream of. With that in mind, changes in the near future doesn't even occur to me. Leastwise, not the nearer-than-nine-months future.

I'm nothing particularly special, I know. So I'm quirky; I have a few oddities about me that I've not seen in anyone else, but hopefully so does everybody else: an obsessive nature, clinical gaucheness, over a million words written in dedication to storytelling, a keen intellect when I want it, and a huge bush of red hair on the top of my head. People tell me I resemble the young Hermione, that I'm a genius (whether or not I believe them is different), that I'm a good writer, and my parents that I'm introverted; I know what the world thinks I am, and know they don't often care.

In short, I suppose I have a good life. It just never occurred to me.

My flaws are easy for me to see; I don't know about anyone else. I often lose motivation to a mental illness that has been claiming me for some time, but still managed to graduate from college. I only hope I can make it through an MFA as well.

It's the middle of a cold, anticipatory March, and summer is just around the corner. Being a redhead with an unusually indoors-oriented nature I don't anticipate summer. I can't wait to move somewhere cold, Vermont if not Andorra, or Ireland, or even Alaska. I walk around outside that evening after work, breathing in the campus air a few blocks down from my apartment. I left student housing when I left college, but there were still apartments dotting the little city, only a few miles from my parents' home. I'm a bit of a homebody, and didn't want to go anywhere.

But I still love to read. Even if it does take me places, those places I know I can be safe in until something bad happens to the character. But there's always a happy ending, always.

My breath rises into the air in a cloud of steam as I turn for the campus library. Then, even as I walk with dread in expectation of both strangers and acquaintances inside, I realize I have a Kindle at home that I haven't used for some time, one that happens to have the Lord of the Rings series on it. This would provide a perfect opportunity to continue being an introvert and avoid interaction, kind and wonderful as the college staff are. I spin on my heel and walk briskly back to my apartment.

I usually rent apartments on higher floors; I feel powerful and safe up there, as though it's a mountain cave. And it gives me the exercise I need, for I mildly resent anything—especially exercise—that takes me away from my reading, writing, or homework. Resultantly I do not date much.

My keys jangle in my hands as I shuffle through my thick coat pockets for them. I turn back and inhale once again the clean, freezing air. For March this isn't bad: snow still dots the brown grass and stale concrete like splotches of milk on a breakfast table. But this table is huge, and spreads into the city as far as the eye can see. I stare up the hill at the most beautiful building in the city, a white temple, pristine and erect like no other building in town. I smile initially; it's such a beautiful thing, and it has such an air of sacredness to it, as though it's built apart. And it is, I know.

I turn into my apartment. I must leave the winter air for my slightly warmer apartment, but I do not mind: it's pitch black in here. I give my eyes a few moments to adjust while I shed my wet shoes, and I flip on a couple of dim lights to search for my Kindle. I take off my socks as well in favor of a warmer, dry pair.

Then I notice all the crumbs on the floor. I rub the ridge of my nose; for some odd reason I'd agreed to host a group of students here, friends of mine, for dinner. But I did not associate with friends much, and forgot from time to time that I had any. I turn to sweep it up first, then go to look for my Kindle.

I do find it rather quickly, sitting invitingly on my dresser, but then I realize I'm going to want something to eat. It's late enough, about 6:00 or so (although all my clocks that I regard for time read 18:00), that I won't get out of my bedroom to eat again. So I make something to eat and dress in something comfortable, then slide into bed with a full plate of apples and sandwiches as well as a full glass of cranberry juice.

 _Lord of the Rings_ has been my "obsession" since I was 15. That strikes me as unusual, and has since I was obsessed for a few years, when I realized my obsession would not end. I've had over a dozen in my lifetime, starting at the age of 18 months old, and they always orbit a single story character.

I suppose, then, that you could say I'm not a _Lord of the Rings_ fanatic, but a Frodo follower. I never read the _Silmarillion_ ; the stories of Middle Earth were not what interested me, but of the meek little hobbit that destroyed himself to save a world that hurt him. I took an MBTI personality test once, and came out with the same results as Frodo. He has similar mental illness to my own. I associate with that; besides that, many ideas and drawings and stories have come from this obsession that has lasted for so many years. It's an obsession I don't understand but follow very closely.

Sometimes I become self-conscious about it, but not as much now that I'm alone. Now I know I can love the character and hopefully not bother anyone in the process.

I start reading the _Fellowship of the Ring._ But I skim the first couple of pages until I hit the first mention of Frodo. I have these passages memorized; I know where they are, and I jump some more until I hit his first interaction with anyone. I leap from page to page, swallowing only information that concerns him. In my obsessions, surrounding one character alone, I must learn more about this character than there is to learn. That takes me into film bonus features and things, watching the actors as well, as though that will help. It does to an extent: there's only so much information you can learn about a character.

I set the book down periodically and shuffle in place; I try not to be a fangirl, but I haven't a doubt I am one. I'm a little too terrified in general to think I could confront any characters, were I to meet them. The actors do not frighten me—they are people, and I have no business with them, save my status as a "film geek" and a desire to meet as many film associates as possible. But characters! The thought is rather frightening. I know I would not think of Frodo the way I do if I only knew him.

Most of my stories about Frodo are romantic ones, inserts of strange characters that never could have existed. But since I don't know how to write another sort of person—or at least didn't when I wrote these stories as a teenager—they were all based on me. I know that perhaps hobbits would accept me as attractive: I'm a soft sort of person, physically. I've made sure I'm not overweight, but I'm not aesthetic, and I'm not thin.

Some people think I'm thin, but the people that know me best know better. Those I date that are particularly obnoxious tell me that I'm comfortable to hug. I growl at the memory—they shouldn't know. I resent embracing them at the end of dates; physical comfort is all they strive for, but it isn't all that I am.

I reach the Council of Elrond and sigh a little bit. I haven't touched my food save one apple slice; I wonder if I were to join them in their world if I would be accepted. Not as I am, but adjusted to the life of a hobbit. I would love to be a hobbit, would love to know Frodo and be there in his trouble. Knowing what I do about the story, though, I don't know what I would change if I didn't already know the journey back to front, there and back again.

While I sit there I wonder if I should continue reading or if I should watch _The Fellowship_ ; somehow the films appeal to me more.

I glance down just to finish the chapter, skimming it for pieces of Frodo. By the time I'm finished, I speculate that I ought to eat before doing anything. But once I'm finished with my food, I receive a text from my mother, reminding me that it's my brother's birthday in a few days. I smile and text her back, telling her I've got everything worked out. I send her the file with plans in it. He's coming home from a two-year stay in Bosnia this week, and we're planning big things for him.

Even as I move to watch the movie I'd planned to, I receive another text from one of my friends, William. He's ready to propose to his girlfriend, and he's excited to tell me; we've been talking for years, and if he's anything he's a genius romantic. I congratulate him with more exclamation points than I can count and follow up on some of our running jokes.

I yawn and set the phone aside. I'm tired tonight, as I often am: I wake up at 5:30, usually, and try to get to sleep as quickly as possible. I quickly write a few paragraphs in the story I'm working on, one of 92 series ideas I've had and stored, and slip into bed.

As I go to rest, I think about _Lord of the Rings_. I sigh when my mind wanders from the beginning right to the end, from one perspective of the Shire to the other. I think about Frodo's smile, how bright and happy he was when he lived in the Shire at first. Then comes the Ring. I don't cry during movies, but as of late I find myself sniffling when I watch the last scene of _Lord of the Rings_ ; I wonder how I can feel so powerfully for a character. Then I remind myself that it's just what I am: I care about people I don't even know, but that makes it harder to love the ones around me.

I shake my head—Frodo deserved better. I want to help. I want to change his fate. I did so in the fanfiction I wrote, but it hasn't made the impact on life it has on me. I sigh and shuffle a little in place, going back through my analysis of everything Frodo went through, the injuries he had and the trauma of loneliness, realization, bitter wisdom, and the crushing of what hopes he might have had. That last one hurt the most: he just wanted to see the world. He did see it, and it broke him.

I shiver in place. That ending only ever taught me that there are only happy endings for some people, that your hopes are wrong and that you are corralled by darkness. Tears trickle to my eyes, and I close them. It must have been so hopeless to be Frodo Baggins.

Eventually I fall asleep, still thinking about that darkness, that pain, and how sometimes I want to succumb to hopelessness as well. I realize I'm now a little ostensibly jealous of Frodo, able to slip away from everything and still have saved the world in a way no one else could have.

I yawn as that thought enters my mind again as it has for the past seven years: I wish I could meet him.


	2. Woke Up in Mind

**Jayla Fire Gal: Thank you so much; I feel so much better. *sniffle* I hope you enjoy! :) And thank you so much for sticking with; never let your weirdness falter. X)**

 **Diem Kieu: Hopefully this ends up okay. :) I hope you like too! Ostensibly like we don't know if it'll turn out well yet or it would turn out well via different medium? XD**

 _Gandalf comes to me in my dreams. I've dreamed of Frodo before; this doesn't surprise me, save that Frodo is nowhere in sight._

 _"_ _Gandalf?" My voice sounds just the same. I'm disappointed; I look the same too. I want to be a hobbit, but I'll let it pass._

 _The wizard puts his hand on my shoulder. His fingers feel so real, but I know it is a dream for the fog-like emptiness that surrounds us on all sides._

 _He says my name, and I startle. He repeats my name, and I answer at last. He breathes a sigh of relief and chuckles. Then his face grows solemn._

 _"_ _I have an assignment for you," he says sternly._

 _I nod. The fog clears, revealing the Council of Elrond around us. None of them are watching us, but I can see them all clearly . . . as it had been in the film. I gasp when I see Frodo: he's so small, and he stares at the Ring with such unadulterated fear. I wish I could help._

 _I turn hesitantly back to Gandalf, the only standing figure. The Council goes on around us, but Gandalf's seat is empty._

 _"_ _You are to come assist the Ringbearer. I will pull you from your world and your time, but your assignment is not to fight. I fear that would kill you: you are to simply be there as a comfort to him. You will not say words, you will not interfere with events, you will just be there when no one else can be. Do you understand?"_

 _I nod, confused why I would come up with this dream. If I invented a dream for myself I would have made my character a fighter, a socially incompetent creature as I was but with the power of a sword or a bow or some such. Apparently I feared being no such thing for dreaming it._

 _"_ _Good," Gandalf says. He grabs me by the shoulder and takes me around Frodo's chair. The Ringbearer's hand lifts at that moment to rub his forehead, and his skin softly brushes mine. I stagger towards Gandalf, frightened by the sudden contact. Frodo's brow furrows, and he glances back towards us but doesn't see us._

 _His eyes look so pained. I realize he has been on Weathertop, and I stare at the ground._

 _Gandalf thrusts me behind a bush. Samwise sits in front of me, oblivious to the presence of both of us._

 _"_ _Wait here," Gandalf orders. "And do not step out. I will bring you forth when it is time." He steps back to the Council, and I lean out to watch Frodo._

I open my eyes and yawn. So it was a confusing dream, but any dream with Frodo is well worth all else that occurred. I sit up and stretch, then blink with the unusual amount of light in my room. Then my eyes widen: a bush sits before me.

I quickly scan my surroundings and find it looks identical to where Gandalf left me in my dream. I sink back onto my side, shivering. This is a stark dream, I realize. I try to roll over, and I am successful, but I do not awaken.

"Wake up," I insist, shaking my head in a low hiss. I do everything I know to get me to wake up; I frantically wonder why I don't. Am I in a coma? I don't feel the drag of moving around in sleep. Perhaps I'm trapped in my own mind.

With a frustrated, worried sigh I slump to the ground. Then I glance over and realize that Gandalf is watching me: the Fellowship has just been announced by Lord Elrond. Sam barely missed me awakening right behind his hiding place, thank goodness.

I move to stand, then remember Gandalf's instructions. With nothing else I can do, I sit back and strain to see Frodo. Elrond dismisses the Council, and I barely catch a glimpse of Frodo walking away with his arm around Sam's shoulders.

Gandalf steps towards me, his expression stern. I scramble in place at his intensity; he stands at least eight inches taller than I do. Frodo is likely almost two feet shorter than I am, and I realize just how intimidating the world must be for a hobbit. I flick my gaze to my feet; they're not hairy, and they aren't large. But I'm not wearing shoes either; I'm wearing the simple brown shirt and loose pants I wore to bed.

I blush to be seen like this, but Gandalf tosses his head as though disregarding me.

"Come, Minah," he says nonchalantly. "We must prepare you for the journey ahead." I scramble to my feet and follow him.

"I'm going with the Fellowship?" I clarify as I trot after him. He takes long strides through Rivendell, and I'm hardly able to take everything in and keep up at the same time. The halls are graceful, and I see parts of the building they never show in the film. Everything is marble and white wood, accented with gold and other stones. I gape at the carvings, graceful elves and fauns.

Gandalf huffs irritably. "Did you not listen to anything I told you just ten minutes ago? You're here to guard Frodo." Then he pauses. "Well, not guard, I suppose; you're here to be a comfort to him, a healer if he needs it again, but do not interfere and do not speak. You are his servant."

I pause, analyzing this. "So his Baymax?"

Gandalf stares at me like I've just called him an old man in informal French.

"I suppose," he muses gruffly. "You no doubt will figure it out. The Fellowship will not address you, and you will not address them; I will tell them who and what you are, and they will leave you alone. I know you are aware of everything that happens here, although by what sort of magic I am not sure, and I ask you to try and influence nothing."

"How do you know what I know?" I ask carefully.

Gandalf cocks an eyebrow, as though uncertain if he should humor me. "I've seen future events in your mind, rather starkly."

I ask no more questions. I don't doubt he'll get irritated with me.

He motions me forward, on to where I am handed to three elf women. One offers me a pile of clothes; they seem to be a black tunic, matching trousers, boots, and a cloak. I don't protest: it would be difficult to follow Frodo around in a dress. I accept them and turn away, but one of the elves grabs my collar. She gently pushes me into a room nearby, one with a huge bed and a mirror and no windows, and shuts the door.

I hesitantly slip into the black garb. My hair never looked good with black, but I reason I haven't much of a choice. One of the elves knocks but doesn't wait for my response before she walks in. She has blonde hair, and reminds me of a younger Galadriel. She hands me a platter of food.

"Will I not be joining the Fellowship for dinner?" I ask.

She pauses, searching me up and down. I realize it must be odd for the elves to treat an unfamiliar guest, not from their own time besides, and one that wears trousers instead of dresses. Her emerald eyes flicker.

"All in due course," she says softly. Then she swiftly bows and turns to leave. I glance down at the tray; appetizers, I suppose, not dinner.

"Wait." She freezes in the doorway, as jerkily as an elf can; they are far too graceful to do it the human way. Then she turns to me, and I ask her name.

She bows again, more relaxed this time. "Nathadel." Her voice trembles as she continues. "Welcome to Rivendell, miss." She shuts the door, and I hear her gliding away hurriedly. I sigh and sit down on the bed; no doubt Gandalf will have me stay in here. He doesn't seem to like me, and why he chose me for this is beyond me.

I lay back on the mattress and wonder if I'll wake up. I want to see Frodo first, but even if I do Gandalf will turn me into a spotted toad for it.

Then I realize that Gandalf hasn't commanded me to do anything since he brought me out from behind the bush. I assume he wants me to stay in bed, but I have a cloak; I can slide amongst the shadows. I doubt anyone will pay me mind.

I rationalize that I ostensibly just want to ask Gandalf what I ought to do now, or see if I could explore. Even I know it's not that, but hopefully no one else will know. I slip out the door, glancing around outside before I continue down the hall. I search for where Gandalf probably is, but I know it's more likely that I'll get lost.

The cool air of the fading day stirs a chill in my soul. I shiver; maybe I don't need to move to Ireland or Alaska. I can stay in Rivendell. I chuckle softly to myself, then begin singing to myself. I forget that I'm here for Frodo, or that Gandalf brought me here. It's just so beautiful.

Then I remember I shouldn't be here; I don't belong with the elves. I sink against the wall, still humming. I hear voices, and I quiet.

It's Frodo.

I listen closer; he sounds so much more substantial than I remember. But instead of speakers, I actually hear him. His voice is not deep, but it is quiet, and I appreciate that. I'm not one for conflict, and I realize I shouldn't have come. I burrow against my column, then stand slowly. Gandalf is with him.

They approach enough that I can hear individual words.

"I'm sure it was nothing, Frodo."

Frodo sounds doubtful. "I saw you walking with someone; there's something off here."

I settle; Gandalf will kill me if he finds me out here. He doesn't want the Fellowship to pay attention to me, and yet he went to so much trouble to send me with them—I don't understand.

"That is a different matter," Gandalf assures. "She is a simple girl."

I breathe a sigh of relief to myself: at least he realizes I'm nothing special. I hope Frodo internalizes that as well.

They pass right by me, and I don't dare breathe for fear of being spotted. But then my head begins to cock; Frodo is perhaps short, but he's just like an elf. It's so surreal, to see him right where I can touch him. I almost misperceive that perhaps I've met him before, and then I realize I haven't. I swallow slowly as I realize that I've found him attractive for a long time, and I try to back into the shadows.

But as Frodo and Gandalf pass by, I knock into something. I squawk in spite of myself, only to find Sam standing behind me. He bows to me, shivering apprehensively.

"I'm sorry, miss," he stammers.

I swallow. "It's fine," I mutter in response. I hear feet approaching, and I slide behind Sam to crouch in the shadows. Frodo peers back here, then turns back to Gandalf.

"It's just Sam," Frodo assures Gandalf, but his eyes flicker to me anyway. I try to cower further, but the corner isn't large enough. I hope he can't see me very well; hopefully Gandalf doesn't send me back home. I want to see how this plays out and not mess myself up already.

Gandalf peers inside, and Sam shuffles nervously. Gandalf mutters something about confounded eavesdropping, and I do my best to contain my sympathetic chuckle.

Frodo flicks his gaze around, catching my eye. He peers into the darkness, but probably still can't see very well.

I decide to tell Gandalf I'm there. I know it's probably silly, but I try to be honest above everything.

"I'm sorry," I whisper softly, stepping out. "I didn't know when you'd be back—,"

Gandalf waves it off. He reaches past a frightened Sam and grabs my hand, yanking me out past Frodo into the hall. My cheeks burn; I didn't want to be introduced this way, but then again I'm too afraid to introduce myself.

"Samwise, go tell the others it's time for dinner," Gandalf orders sternly. His gaze follows Sam, who scrambles down the hall but waves to me politely as he goes. I like Sam, and I grin to myself in spite of my predicament.

"Frodo, this is Minah. I have summoned her here to assist you in your travels. I believe I have made quite clear to both of you that this is not a matter of acquaintance beyond you, Minah, being here as . . . well, more of a servant in the background of things."

I shrug. I don't dare look at Frodo. "A Baymax," I mutter to myself.

In my peripheral I see that Frodo's gaze hasn't left me. But he doesn't look stunned so much as, well, studious. I know he's intelligent; he's probably assessing me, and will likely leave me alone after he analyzes to his heart's content. As I nervously glance at Gandalf, I realize he doesn't entirely look like Ian McKellan. There are similiarities, but there is a distinct difference. His cheekbones are wider, and his mouth is fuller. I cock my head—I didn't entirely realize that there would be a change in what I understood to be the Fellowship and how they actually exist.

Gandalf claps my shoulder. "Dinner will be ready in moments. Come, Frodo."

Frodo pauses, looking me up and down. I shuffle my feet, folding my hands behind my back as Gandalf tries to drag Frodo away. I almost stare at him with the intent message that he should go, but just the feeling of him is so sweet and intimidating that I can't. Besides, I have a clinical aversion to socializing, and liking someone only makes it worse.

The hobbit waves his hand dismissively. "I'll be along, Gandalf. Would it be so bad if I were to talk to her?" I tremble nervously.

Gandalf hmphs. "Do as you will. But I did not bring her here to be your companion so much as a simple comfort. You are aware of this."

I don't understand why Gandalf is so intent on hammering this in to us, but I realize it must be for my understanding and Frodo's subsequent benefit. Frodo nods assertively, and as Gandalf hesitantly walks away Frodo begins studying me again.

My, but this hobbit is far more curious and persistent than I ever realized. He reaches up with soft, firm fingers, locking gently under my jaw until he coaxes me to look at him. I inhale and exhale slowly; I know how average I look, but I didn't realize how he would be when I got a good view of him. Unlike how I'd always seen him—much less envisioned him—he looks wiser. His eyes shift constantly; his jaw is not as strong and wide as I remember, and his nose is perhaps a little longer, I'm not sure. His mouth is a little less distinct, and doesn't initially turn to a smile. I stare at him intently when I realize perhaps I can communicate with this creature.

Frodo's hand slacks away from my face, and I swallow uncertainly. I am tempted to shake his hand, but I don't know what is polite for a servant to do and not to do.

He extends his own. "I am Frodo Baggins," he says gently.

I shake his hand, the skin tender in my grip. His bones are fine, small, and I release him quickly. "And you know my name, sir," I reply; my voice trembles, and I initially drop to one knee. My hand that touched his drops to the floor as well. "I understand I am to serve you in any capacity I may."

Frodo chuckles lightly. I can already hear the burden in his voice, the chill of the Morgul stab that I missed. My brow furrows as I realize perhaps if I'd been called when Frodo was still in the Shire I could have saved him.

"Perhaps Gandalf called you for such," he says, obviously amused. He lays a hand on my shoulder and I freeze; he puts light pressure into it, guiding me forward. I stand and follow him down to where I assume dinner will be. "But quite frankly I have nine companions that have already offered to serve me and have no need for protection."

I study his feet as he moves. They are quite large, and far more hairy than I realized before. He walks quickly for being so small—his hands are thrust absentmindedly into his pockets. He wears no cloak yet, and I wonder as I study him what it feels like to hold him. I've always wanted to; he's so small. I immediately berate myself for thinking such things.

"Gandalf didn't bring me here to protect you," I admit. "I think he brought me to be a consistent comfort; didn't he tell you?"

Frodo hesitates for a short moment. "I'm not entirely sure what he means by that."

I turn down the hall after him. I know the less I talk to him the more content (or at least dismissive) Gandalf will be. But I gather I ought to explain my perspective.

"This quest is not going to be easy." I pause, thinking of everything ahead of him. I eye the bright little hobbit and wince; how could anyone let anything this harsh happen to him? "I think Gandalf wanted an . . ." I pause. I think then of Boromir, and that moment in front of Moria when Gandalf said to trust no one. "An objective party, one that can't fight and isn't stubborn enough, one that is considered less of a creature and more an ambivalent asset that carries itself." My voice shakes as my mind quickly grows heated; now I think I know why Gandalf chose me. "Simply to hold you or physically support you when you need it, not as a person but as an object."

I bite my lip when Frodo glances back at me. He stops in the middle of the hall, and I nearly slam into him. I scramble back two steps; trampling him is the last thing I need to do.

"You cannot fight?"

I blink uncertainly at his question, and then nod. "I've never needed to learn," I say sheepishly. One of his eyebrows lifts a little; I don't want to make a bad impression, but I realize it's a little late for that. "Where I come from times are not physically dangerous." Then I think of everyone serving in war back home, and realize perhaps Frodo is no different. I glance at the floor. "Leastwise, not where I live."

Frodo takes my hand, and I stiffen. I am not one for physical affection, another reason why I haven't dated much. Then I realize perhaps this is condescending of him, and I grip his hand in response.

"I care not," he says with a light smile. I love his smile a great deal; I cannot smile well, and my eyes widen slightly. I tear my gaze from it and look into his eyes—indeed they are bright blue, but it is not the color nor is it the size of them that catches me: it's the light behind them, everything he contains that is good in the world. I wince again when I realize it'll be broken. "I suppose I'll need you; Gandalf is wise."

That condescension puts me to calling him "sir" further. He releases my hand and beckons for me to come with him. I oblige hesitantly; I don't want to come. I'm far too abrasive around people, especially when I'm scared. I'll probably have them all either roaring with laughter or staring at me like some orc hybrid.


	3. Dining with Heroes

**Jayla Fire Gal: Thanks! I hope it doesn't disappoint at all. X) Yeah, meeting the Fellowship would be INSANE . . . O.o Especially since they're all guys, and in spite of size, probably a lot stronger than Minah or perhaps most of the rest of us.**

 **Diem Kieu: Thank you! I thought I would do that kind of thing, just because I think it's stalkerish to tie Elijah Wood to Frodo, or Orlando Bloom to Legolas, or whomever to whomever. But that doesn't mean people that like actors are stalkers, because I think some actors are awesome and would totally love to talk to them. X) DFTYA! Thanks so much!**

 **Tea and Weirdness: Welcome, and thanks so much for reviewing! I'm addicted to Frodomances, and I love reading yours! I hope I have more opportunities in the future. :)**

The only empty seat is between Aragorn and Boromir when we enter the small dining hall. The elves have set out food already, and likely won't be interrupting. There is already live chatter, and Bilbo is reciting some of his poetry to Sam. He excitedly greets Frodo, who sits down across from the empty space next to his uncle. Frodo beckons to me, and I hesitate.

Gandalf glances up, then grabs my wrist and yanks me forward. I'm stubborn, but not stubborn enough.

"Sit down, Minah," he hisses. "You are to obey Frodo's whim."

I take my place between Aragorn and Boromir. Like Gandalf, they are very tall men, a huge contrast to the hobbits. Out of habit I allow my bushy hair to conceal most of me as I bless my food to myeslf and begin eating. I hope no one notices, but there's enough wine at the table that it's only a matter of minutes before Pippin or Merry loudly asks who I am. I write; I know how character works.

Slowly I eat, eyeing those at the table that will likely spot me first. I avoid Frodo; he gives me glances from time to time. I think he knows more about why I'm here than I do—he seems anticipatory. I don't understand.

My brow furrows as I eat. Then a hand strokes back my hair gently from my left side, and I jolt in place, staring up.

Aragorn smiles at me encouragingly. Unlike I've ever seen in the movies, his hair is perhaps a little bit shorter, and his neck is stronger. His hands are more calloused.

"Do not be afraid, young one; there is no need to hide here," he murmurs softly. He is kind, I see, and I'm glad he is being just that. "What is your name?"

I flick my gaze to Gandalf. He gives me a dark glare, and his eyes deliberately shift to Aragorn, then back to me.

"I am not to speak to the Fellowship, honored King," I whisper. Aragorn leaves me alone for some time; I wonder if I have him perplexed or if he simply realizes that I'm below him, much less the rest of the Fellowship. I begin searching the rest of the room, catching patterns and analyzing conversation. I freeze when my eyes briefly meet Frodo's. I look away, but he doesn't. He sets down his fork, still studying me, until Bilbo catches his attention. I coyly shift my gaze to Frodo again, only to see him smile beautifully.

"That's wonderful, uncle," he says softly. His eyes flicker back to me, then down to his food. He doesn't look at me for a while, and I do my best not to look at him either.

Then Aragorn lays a gentle hand on my shoulder, turning me to look at him.

"No admittance to speak to the Fellowship under whose orders?" He waves a hand. "Never mind that. Just tell me your name."

As he continues to eat, I swallow. My gaze wanders to Gandalf; the wizard is no longer glaring a warning at me, and I dare not deny the King. I have no doubt Gandalf won't hurt me if I simply do as a servant does and obey. "Minah."

Aragorn allows his eyes to sink closed. "I do not know this name. You'll pardon me."

I snicker. "Not at all." I sit up a little straighter, slightly more comfortable as I smugly take another bite. "Were I famous, it would be for snarky entertainment alone, sir, and I doubt you would be one to pursue entertainment of any sort."

He cocks an eyebrow, slightly amused. "And why not?"

"Why, those two over there would certainly be enough," I say, caging a laugh as I gesture to Merry and Pippin—they're cackling drunkenly. "I'm afraid I'm only amusing to those laden with wine; my form of humor would seem to you a fool's errand, I'm sure."

He smiles. "Indeed it would, if you say so." He takes another bite, staring intently at my eyes. "Where are you from?"

I blink and glance at my food; Frodo is watching me again, waiting for answers. He's too insightful. He frightens me more than I realized he would, and being only 33, why . . . by hobbit accounts, he's younger than I am.

"I'm from another time, another world," I say slowly. I lower my voice—Frodo doesn't appear to strain his ears, but I have no doubt he can hear me. He ambivalently turns back to his food, and I tear my peripheral from him. "Gandalf brought me to . . . well, to comfort Frodo, I suppose."

Aragorn muses over that.

"I suppose the gentle touch of a woman is all he needs," he concludes at last.

My brows crease. My voice drops to a whisper. "Only for the one wound he has received? And even if he does need assistance with it, I doubt I am capable."

"Well, what have you trained in?"

I nearly laugh outright. "Many things, none of them useful for a situation like this. Jocosity, primarily, but that doesn't seem to go far."

Aragorn chuckles. "No?"

I sigh. "I fear, Aragorn, that true jocose wit either is nonexistent in a person or is too overdone. I'm afraid I am unaware to which extremity I am party to."

Aragorn claps my shoulder. "You need not know now. Frodo simply needs gentility."

"Mindless as it may be," I mutter. Aragorn hesitates before taking a drink.

"Mindless?"

I nod, attempting to be jocose. I only hope he picks up on it. "I'm assuming if Gandalf were desperate enough to select me for the job, he really wouldn't care how well or horribly I do on anything else. I think I could be an overweight sloth of sorts and this would work perfectly."

Aragorn tsks. "It'll be a great deal of walking; an overweight sloth could hardly support Frodo."

"Especially a complaining overweight sloth. I'm sure one is not simply overweight on this quest without something to say about the distance walked."

After working and warming up the corners of my brain that somehow conjur hilarious things, I eventually get Aragorn to laugh, and it stirs the interest of Pippin and Merry. I increase my pace of speaking and associating with the Fellowship, and soon I'm embedded in conversation with all save Frodo and Gandalf. I even speak to Sam some of the time, and he seems interested enough that I wonder if I will fit in with the Fellowship. Aragorn is perhaps the most inviting; Bilbo is ecstatic to share his tales and poems, certain I'm familiar with none of them; Gimli comes over and gives me a crushing hug, exclaiming that at least there will be some peace from "the elf" on this journey; Legolas is undeterred by my presence, but speaks to me anyway; Boromir sits next to me and asks solemn questions that I usually turn into jocose comebacks.

The hobbits are my favorites, though. After dinner is at last finished, Merry and Pippin invite me to come learn to dance. I ecstatically leap from my chair, and Pippin extends his hand to me. I'm too tall to really dance with him, but he teaches me a few steps. He manages to get Aragorn to dance with me; Pippin and Merry bounce around my legs. I take a turn with Aragorn, and Gimli shoves Boromir out of his chair to have him do the same.

We wind up on the floor laughing after Boromir trips on a loose tile and I fall over with him. Merry and Pippin leap onto us excitedly, tickling and poking me. I squawk and roll away as Gimli begins wrestling them.

The rest of the evening we basically sing and laugh, exchange stories and poems. Once I learn how the tunes go I can sing with them; my voice is low, although not quite low enough, and they laugh at me a great deal. I take to enjoying it. They ask me to tell them a story as we finish up.

I pause, my gaze flicking to Frodo. He's been quiet this whole time, and I wonder if he's all right. I almost think to pull him aside afterwards and ask him how he's doing, what troubles him and if there is any way I can help.

The temptation to speak to him—as well as the desire to understand what's going on—is not stronger than my fear and uncertainty. I turn to the group. Four hobbits sit at my knees, and the men sit at the table; most eyes are on me. I softly begin the tale of The Lord of the Rings, altering names and events as I go to conceal it. I gather I only ought to maintain the general idea, the destruction of all that is evil.

As I conclude my tale at the Grey Havens, my gaze flickers to Frodo. His eyes are knowing, as though he can see right through not only my words but everything I do, everything I am. My voice slows as his crystal eyes lock onto mine; he is so powerful for one so small. I wonder what he knows, what he guessed during my story . . . and I wonder, at the bitter way I addressed the protagonist's departure, if he no longer has the courage to finish his quest.

Everyone trickles off to bed. Merry and Pippin are actually some of the first to leave, probably not to find their room until long after all the rest of us are asleep. I have small talk with the others as they depart, including Gandalf. He's had a little bit of wine: I won't say he's tipsy, but he's certainly more lenient than he was earlier.

I laugh and wave as they walk out the door. That's the last of the noise in the whole room, and I lower my hand. I'm not sure if Frodo is still here, but I don't want to see. Something tells me he is. He softly steps towards me, around the table and behind where I'm seated. I strain not to visibly stiffen as he carefully grips the chair.

He says nothing, and I wonder why he is still here. After a moment I turn to look at him; his eyes are not as heavy as they will be, but it still hurts to see him like this. Even as I move to ask a question he opens his mouth to speak as well. We both pause, and I finally let my jaw sink shut.

"Good night, Minah," he says simply, patting my shoulder. He turns away and walks out without another word.

I'm too shocked to reply. Soon, though, I stand and follow. I glance back at the messy dining hall, but I haven't the faintest idea how to start cleaning. I shrug, then reach forward and begin stacking plates and gathering glasses into groups. I only hope this doesn't mess them up.

When I hear elves approaching, I slip out of the room and try to find mine once again. They haven't given me any clothes to sleep in, but I don't care; I'll use my own. It's a little strange to wake up from a night's rest and find myself getting another only five hours later. I blink, disoriented, at the stars outside one of the great arches. I fold my arms over the balcony outside the hall arches; the structure is full of them. But this balcony is special—as I look out across Rivendell with the moonshine illuminating details of leaves and the graceful waterfall, I realize this must be the balcony where Frodo came out to think before reuniting with Merry and Pippin.

I sigh to myself at the tender bookishness of such a place, that I can envision this unfamiliar Frodo doing such a thing. I realize Frodo's room must be nearby, and I turn once again to find my own. I glance out one last time at the beautiful view, and somehow I feel like I belong. Probably not in Middle Earth, but wherever I happen to belong probably looks like that.

A bitter chuckle escapes me: that's my wish, at least. I probably do not deserve such.

I finally find my own room after passing by what could be the door to Frodo's. I hear him speaking softly with Gandalf inside, and I resist the urge to listen in. I mouth a good night to them both, then step into my own room.

I wear my own clothes to bed and slip inside. The mattress is gentle and somehow still firm; it's not unlike my own back home, save this has a transcendent quality to it. I sigh to myself, wondering how my family is doing.

If Frodo's touch wasn't so stark, I would assert that now, back in bed, I'll wake up at home only to find this has all been a dream. I toss with wide eyes; but what if it is? It has to be, I conclude shakily. And I took little opportunity to speak to Frodo. My eyes sink shut with the realization, but I can't sleep; I don't want to.

I lie there for hours, thinking about Frodo and wondering if he'll be all right. I convince myself with little conviction that this is all just a dream, and his path will be as predictable as it's always been for me.

Eventually I fall asleep, probably close to the middle of the night. I dream of Frodo, as I have when I was a teenager, but it doesn't follow the chronology of now. The dream is confusing; _we're at my parents' home, in the main room with a clear view into the kitchen. It has a fan of green and red glass that whirs above and in front of us. The sky is dark outside. I see through my own eyes; I know this room well, the plain wood table before us and the tanned floor below. The fireplace sits across the table, with an off-white stone hearth for seating and two lights above it. The back doors are beside it._

 _The details are stark, but I'm not paying attention to them: I'm staring down at Frodo's head, lodged by the crook of my neck. I can barely see the tip of his nose; most of my vision is filled with his hair. But it's him, unmistakably so._

 _We're the same size here. I don't know if or how he's balanced on my lap or off of it, but I care not then. I hold him with both arms, close to me, comforting him. I know what's wrong with him; it doesn't come into words. He does not move, he does not cry out. He is perfectly still. I rub my hand up and down his arm, substantially feeling and lightly squeezing his shoulders. I bury a kiss in his hair, followed by three more, smaller, desperate, more expressive._

 _My own voice shocks me._

 _"_ _It's all right, sweet one."_

 _His voice shocks me even more; but here, in this reality, I actually know him, and I hear him beyond my dream. His words hurt beyond what I expected, beyond what I know in words or coherent thought._

"You don't know that."

When my eyes flicker open I'm sitting up, and my blanket is packed tightly into my arms, my jaw buried in the top of it. Tears are in my eyes, trailing down my cheeks, and I allow the blanket to fall with a slight, shuddering breath: I wonder then what was wrong, if I could help in any way. I doubt it. I wonder then how he reacts to comfort, if he prefers touch, to be left alone, or to speak or to be spoken to. I rub my face; I can't help him. I don't even know how. I haven't begun and I'm already ready to give up.

"Of course I don't," Gandalf mutters. "None of us do, but Samwise and even Bilbo agree with me."

"Gandalf, I don't believe any of you."

I move to stand, but then my doorknob turns gently. I slap back down on my bed as the door opens, and I hear gentle feet pad inside. I have no doubt that of the two of them it's Frodo.

Gandalf's voice drops to a whisper. "She won't know. We've said nothing of it to her, because there is no such conspiracy."

Light pressure adjusts the mattress, and I struggle to keep breathing deeply as Frodo's fingers trace my hair. He's stepping boldly; I wonder if he wants me to awaken.

After a moment he stops and stands up. I allow my eyes to ease open, but I don't look at him. I can't see him; I'm turned away from him enough that my peripheral doesn't catch him. But then he stands, and I toss with a slight moan. Frodo and Gandalf both freeze, and I sigh. My eyes slip open just a little; Frodo swallows and backs out with Gandalf.

"Well, Frodo, I suppose she wouldn't wake up."

Frodo's voice fades away quietly. "I'm almost glad; that would have been rude of me, Gandalf."

"You would have apologized, I'm sure. She is here as your servant; she will do what you tell her to do."

I sigh and lay back, feeling his touch against my head. I rub the spot—what does he think? Why is he doing these crazy things? I don't understand, and I'm unable to sleep because of it. I remember him glancing at me at dinner tonight, every odd look and every strange touch. Gandalf told him to think of me as a servant, and I hope that's all he does.

My voice turns to the ceiling. I just wanted to see him, know him, help.

"Gandalf, why am I here?" I breathe.


	4. Mithril Pencil

**Jayla Fire Gal: That was just because her relationship with Frodo was already off to a rocky start. XD And I thought the rest of the Fellowship would be nonchalant enough to be inviting; hopefully that makes sense. :)**

 **Tea and Weirdness: Oh, yeaaahhh. ;) I actually have little blurbs that explain what he's thinking . . . but I wasn't sure whether to publish those or not. But this is a first draft of many, so chances are excellent that those will pop up as bonus chapters later. Well, here it is for you!**

 **Diem Kieu: Thanks so much! X) Hey, I'm not going to hunt you down if you don't review quickly. XD Life happens, and . . . well . . . I can say I haven't been publishing much because of life happening. :P Thanks! I look forward to the 23rd!**

 **Me and Not You 1001: Welcome, and thanks so much for the review! Yeah, I get that a lot on CritiqueCircle; I even confuse myself when I go back and read chapters. Completely incoherent sentences; I can't follow my own thought patterns to save my life. :P Which is why EVERY story I've uploaded here will go through major editing. XD That could be because I don't see Gandalf in magically admirable light, just because of what ended up happening to Frodo, that he wasn't able to do anything. Part of it is that he's afraid of her, which becomes more obvious in later chapters: he knows that she knows more than he does about the story, and he doesn't like that. So it's just a bit of friction based on background, I think, if that explains it. Oh, absolutely. Again, welcome! :) I hope you like. First Frodomance? Well, it's probably the most sane one I have on here thus far; if you don't like wonky story line, then this one will work best.**

 **sweetdixie.17:** **XD Thanks! It was almost sarcastically conceived, but I got attached to it. X) Welcome to my story, and I appreciate the reviews! (I'm still checking out When Reality Carries a Grudge; I think it'll turn out great!)**

 **Apologies to you all, but this is a very short chapter. :P I got up early this morning and am doing it again, so I'm not going to go to the trouble to make it longer. :) Thanks for reading! Love hearing from you! If you have a story you want me to check out, let me know, and I'll critique it if you want or praise the daylights out of it if you want, just let me know. :)**

We are setting out for the quest soon, but supplies need to be gathered and weapons distributed. I wander Rivendell for eight days, meeting with many of the Fellowship members. Frodo is often reading, and I do my best not to disturb him. He greets me readily, almost anticipatorily, but I'm supposed to be in the background: I usually move on, and disappear around the corner before he can find me. I don't understand his motive, and I don't want to know.

After a week and a half Bilbo invites me to write poetry with him, and I'm sitting on his bed laughing with him when a knock comes to the door. Bilbo hands me the pen and paper at last, and I begin scribbling down what I feel around him. We've done that to each other for the past hour or so; he was actually thinking about what he thought of Gimli at the time, and I thought he was writing about me. I wrote a rather snarky poem back, and he asked who it was about.

That carried on into hilarity soon enough.

As Bilbo stands, I write a little couplet about Pippin and Merry and bite my lip as I set the paper back down. I notice a bundle on the small hobbit bed: I have no doubt it has Sting and the mithril shirt in it. I glance up at Bilbo, suddenly reminded of Frodo. I sigh as I remember my dream from the night before, every look he gave me yesterday. I wonder how much I will care for him, if I will get to him at all on this journey. I suddenly fear not being enough, for whatever reason I've been brought here.

I plan to ask Bilbo if I can hold Sting, but then Frodo steps in. I stand suddenly and bow, but Bilbo chuckles.

"Minah, please." He admonishes me back to sit on the bed. "No formalities here; you could be like family!" He grips my shoulders and squeezes affectionately. He turns to Frodo and whispers loudly, "She writes poetry almost as well as I do." He raises his voice, patting me on the head. "And appreciates it like you should."

Frodo smiles, hiding a chuckle. I quickly snatch the pen and paper back, writing a whiplash poem about Frodo in my worst handwriting so that no one will be able to read it. Bilbo doesn't see me do so, shuffling through his pack. Frodo glances up at me, his eyes keen and . . . longing? I cock my head.

"Are you all right, Master Baggins?" I say softly.

Frodo leans forward, but then Bilbo stands up. "Frodo, I've got some things to show you!" I smile and back away, and Frodo's gaze follows me warily. I clear my throat as quietly as I can; he intimidates me somehow. He may be half my height, but he is indeed frightening, especially since I know I'm here on his behalf. I wonder then if he asked Gandalf to bring me here, how they found me, exactly what happened.

Bilbo produces Sting, and shivers race up my back as Frodo neatly unsheathes the sword. The ring of metal against metal pierces the air and carries through the room. I stare, entranced, at the blade. As Frodo and Bilbo speak—the former absentminded—he follows my gaze. I see it in my peripheral and decide to ignore it; I don't understand what about me fascinates him so. I've done nothing while I've been here, and I know he doesn't find me attractive: _I'm twice his size, for heaven's sake!_

Frodo sets Sting aside, still flicking his gaze to me periodically. There must be something he knows, something that I don't, for him to carry on that way. Bilbo hands him the shirt of mithril, and at the jangle of priceless metal rings my eyes widen again. I stare at the shirt; it's too small for me by a long shot, but I badly enough wanted to see him in it.

As Bilbo offers it to him, I realize there's going to be some trouble here if I don't do something.

"Bilbo," I offer quietly. As Frodo reaches for the top button of his shirt, Bilbo sets the mithril down in front of him. I hold up the paper; I remember for a fleeting moment that I'm not supposed to interfere, but I'm not sure if I want to let this go through. "While he gets dressed, would you like to see the couplet I wrote concerning Merry and Pippin?"

I smile wryly as he races around the bed and plops down by my side. I hear Frodo behind us, and my shoulders roll when I hear the mithril slide into place around his torso. I hope he's concealed the Ring.

Bilbo laughs at my poem, then announces that he wants to try one. He scribbles a couplet poking fun at their eating habits, and I ruffle his hair.

"Bilbo!" I chide jocosely. "That's flattery!"

He bursts out laughing. I glance back at Frodo and move to alert Bilbo . . . but I'm frozen. I never saw Frodo in mithril, and it's actually a little disorienting. It complements him well, and I strain not to think further about it. It draws his shoulders as neatly as a trained hand with graceful pencil, and the light shines against his pale skin. It contrasts with his dark curls; he looks like a transcendent warrior. His eyes—for once—do not meet mine.

Bilbo finally turns and chippers excitedly at the sight. Frodo grins at him, then cocks his head at my expression.

Bilbo nudges me. "I think he wants to know what you think, Minah." He bends down near to me. "Would you say it makes him handsome?"

I swallow, completely taken aback. I flick my gaze away from Frodo as Bilbo laughs, clapping my back.

"I would," I mutter. Frodo doesn't react, and Bilbo doesn't say anything, so I assume they didn't hear me, and I'm glad of it. But my face burns anyway. I feel a little bit better when Frodo gently slips the mithril back over his head—Bilbo isn't distracted this time, and as Frodo fixes his shirt Bilbo lets out a gasp. I turn to the floor, my eyes squeezed shut.

"Oh!" My eyes open wide when I realize Bilbo sounds more possessive than I expected: he already seems sinister, and I look back to see his features changing sooner than I anticipated. He asks Frodo if he can hold it, and I leap up to grab him.

Frodo closes his shirt, and Bilbo lunges for him with a savage hiss; he knocks down a bed-end dresser on the way, shoving my adrenaline with the noise. I wrap my arms around the older hobbit, who scrambles against my grip. Frodo collapses to the floor, gasping for air as I wrestle Bilbo back and away from him.

"Bilbo, please!" I manage. The hobbit is strong. He reaches up to claw my face, and I duck against the bed, locking him down. His frenzy surprises me; at least he's small. "Bilbo, it's just your nephew! Let the blasted Ring go!"

Bilbo finally calms down and stares up at me, his sweet little face twisted in horror. He glances back down at Frodo, who shakily clambers to his feet.

The elderly hobbit's voice is terribly remorseful. "I'm so sorry, my lad," he manages mournfully. I sit him gently on the bed and curl him up close to me. I've grown attached to the old hobbit, even if it hasn't been long. As I squeeze his shoulders reassuringly, he shakes his head. "You should never have had to carry this burden!" He sobs a little, and I pull him softly onto my lap.

After a moment or two I glance back at Frodo, and Bilbo sits once again on the bed. I beckon Frodo over to him, and he sits down beside his uncle, putting a comforting hand on his shoulder.

I cup Bilbo's wrinkled cheek.

"I'll leave you two," I say quietly, stepping out. I don't hear Frodo saying my name until I'm already out the door. I pause there, waiting for him to continue, but he doesn't. I wonder what he wants; I don't have the courage to open the door and ask. I back away from the door and trot back to my room.


	5. Cold Blood

**Jayla Fire Gal: Yeah; I guess the only issue with the whole stopping Bilbo thing is that . . . well . . . it was more terrifying than she expected, not only because she was a part of it, but because it is truly different. O.o**

 **Me And Not You 1001: XD Pogo sticks! That's perfect! Thanks so much. X) I hope this chapter is better for length. XP**

 **Diem Kieu: I'm so happy you get me! :D Thanks so much; I appreciate it.**

A knock comes at my bedroom door; I don't register the familiarity of it. I'm staring at the ceiling after writing a few paragraphs of an idea for a story, and I continue to daydream as I distractedly answer.

"Come in."

The door opens, and Frodo steps inside. I scramble to a sitting position when I see him; he cocks his head at me, weighing and studying. I rub my arm—the way he studies me makes me feel too visible, and not in the best way. He looks not like he could bite, but like he could pick me apart, learn everything there is to know about how I feel, and put me back together with judgments, critiques, and rejections at the ready.

But he is not that discourteous, is he?

"Can I help you, Master Baggins?" I say after a long silence.

Frodo releases the door and steps over to me. I scoot over to give him room, but he doesn't sit down. He grips my hand again, and he begins to study that as well, as though he's an x-ray and he can probe everything inside at will, like he can read my palm on a whole new level. He traces the tendons on the back of my hand, feels the knuckles.

"I just want to thank you. For helping my uncle." His eyes rise to meet mine. Those eyes terrify me. I thought they were the eyes of a lonely character that had gone through too much, more than he deserved; while that is a part of it, it isn't all: he has a piece to him that I've never seen before, in person much less on film. I want to know, to understand. Perhaps as I open up he will as well.

But he looks at me and treats me as though I have no options of my own, as though I'm not human. I almost prefer it that way, as though I'm a bird for sale or something. I realize it's a relief not to be seen as either attractive or not, if that's truly what he thinks. It probably isn't, but I latch onto that idea: if I'm nothing more than a pet-like companion to him, I can live with that. He is a hobbit, after all; I can be his Baymax.

I swallow—his gaze is so sharp. "Anytime, Master Baggins." I pause. "I hope you don't find this question impertinent, but . . ." I trail off when he glances deeper into my eyes, into the very depths of my soul. My jaw locks open; I don't know how to react to him. His fingers tenderly dot my cheek with the soft sting of snow, the warmth of an accidental caress. He's looking for something, something I don't understand. My words come out staggered. "But did you ask Gandalf to find me?"

Frodo backs away slowly. My skin tingles where his was in contact with it.

"That is not a story for the present," he says assertively. "I have done what I came to do." He turns and opens the door, looking a little bit flustered, and steps out. It lingers open behind him, as though daring me to follow.

I sit back, completely perplexed. He looked dissatisfied. What had I done? Perhaps Gandalf would send me back. I fearfully glance back up, wishing I could pray and have all of this be—well, I don't want it to be finished: I want to know what I can do. Bilbo was more susceptible to the Ring today than what I'd experienced. Perhaps Gandalf is wrong; perhaps I only know half of everything.

"I can't help him . . . can I?" I stare up at the ceiling; only blank white responds. "What can I change?"

I can't sleep. I've never been able to sleep easily here, and I doubt I ever will. I think about Frodo; I have nightmares about the Morgul stab, Shelob's sting, Frodo's side impaled by the cave troll, his finger discarded by Gollum. I _know_ what's ahead of him. I wake up shivering every time I see his face, contorted by pain, rage, or the desire to give up.

Finally I calm myself: I obviously don't know anything about these circumstances. So far the Council of Elrond is the only thing that has been consistent with my knowledge of this story; I could be wrong about everything.

Besides, what if I never learn to like Frodo? What if he's too condescending? So far he terrifies me. With this I attempt to console myself to sleep, but despite my exhaustion my brain is far too busy to let me rest.

Even as my eyelids begin to grow heavy somewhere beyond midnight, a hasty knock sounds at my door. I bolt straight up in bed, and the door opens without my consent. A large figure leaps forward and grabs my hand.

"Come, Minah," Gandalf says urgently.

I don't even ask. I follow him down the hall, and he shoves me into Frodo's room. The hobbit moans and writhes in place, occasionally letting out a staggered cry. I haven't the faintest idea what to do, and Gandalf shoves me down on the bed.

"He's cold, and I think you can help," Gandalf insists urgently.

I grab Frodo's arm; icy chills race up my skin at the touch. I embrace his small torso, lifting him into my arms. He doesn't strain against my hold, but he's stiff and doesn't respond well. I grab the blankets and wrap them around us, rubbing his legs and arms, trying to warm him as best I can.

"Keep him there as long as you can," Gandalf orders, settling. "He should be all right in a few minutes; do not leave this room, and do not fall asleep. That won't help him at all."

Gandalf whisks away, shutting the door behind him. I pause, uncertain, until Frodo writhes in my grip again. I reach up and feel his shoulder; it feels like it should be icing over for the nasty chill of it. I press my fingers softly against the scrape in his skin, and he begins to shudder. I only hope I'm doing the right thing.

"Wake up and tell me what to do," I whisper desperately. I swallow, panic flooding my voice as he convulses in my arms. "I don't know what hurts, what helps."

Frodo's cry staggers again, and I hug him closer to me. His legs fold across my lap, and he moves for the first time on his own, wrapping his arms around my shoulders. He shivers a little more and buries his hands under my hair at the back of my neck.

I sigh softly, mostly with shaky relief when he finally quiets down. "Poor little thing," I whisper, allowing my stress to drift away. I wish I could help more, but I fear holding him is all I can do. Even so, relative to someone that knows and cares about him I'm probably not much assistance at all, but he takes to it.

Frodo's shaky whisper brushes my collarbone. "Thank you," he manages.

I hope he doesn't realize it's me, but I accept the thanks and squeeze him slightly. Soon he is breathing deeply, his small lungs swelling and settling against my arms. I sigh hopefully and lay him down again, wrapping him tightly in the blanket in case the cold starts again. I sit on the floor, my back to the wall. Why this all happens to him, I don't understand; I never have. It's "meant to," I'm aware. I sigh and lie down on the hard, wooden floor. Perhaps he is the only one able to carry it, but he deserves better than this.

I forget that Gandalf doesn't want me to fall asleep; I'm too worried about Frodo to consider doing so anyway, but somehow my eyes manage to slip closed for a few minutes. Then I hear a confused voice close to dawn.

"What are you doing in here?"

I sit upright, my hair tousled. Frodo is standing, in the process of slipping his shirt over his shoulders, on the side of the bed closer to me. I yawn and stretch my back before responding.

"Gandalf brought me in here," I say finally, unsure how else to explain myself. My eyes soften when I see his Morgul stab on his shoulder. I gesture to it, and he glances down. "You were cold; Gandalf told me to do what he brought me here to do."

"Which is—?" Frodo halts, calculating. Then he blushes—but doesn't smile—and as he sits down shakily I stand and quickly trot to the other side of the bed.

"I suppose I'll see you later," I manage, and I grab the knob. Then I hear a nigh inaudible sound.

"Thank you," Frodo whispers, but when I turn he's staring at the floor; I cock my head, confused. Perhaps he's just testing the words in his mouth, as though he doesn't recall them from the night before, which he evidently doesn't. He curls up slightly, rubbing his Morgul stab and slacking against the bed like he did against me the night before.

Panic overwhelms me—he's going to turn around any second. I slip through the door and close it behind me, then back into the wall with a heavy sigh. I hear him moving around inside, but I gather he's still getting dressed. I quickly race down the hall, shaking my head over and over again.

Sam runs into me, and he looks a little frantic.

"Mr. Gandalf is coming to get you," he whispers. "You'd better get ready; we're leaving in minutes."

I pause, then realize perhaps today is the day we leave for the quest. I glance back at Frodo's room, then nod to Sam. I race back to my own room and slip into my black clothes; I locate a satchel under the bed that I stuff my nightclothes in, although I doubt I'll use them. In company of so many men, I doubt I'll ever take the risk of making the switch.

I sling the satchel over my shoulder and run to ask Gandalf for a walking stick, if not my own. I love my walking stick, but I'm sure I'll be able to deal without it if Gandalf won't bring it . . . assuming he can.

I halt in the middle of the hall. Will Gandalf be able to send me back when the quest is over? Is any time passing at home? As I race to find him, I curse my innate ambivalence: I haven't been thinking about home much aside from their general well-being, simple contemplation. Now I'm a little bit worried.

"Gandalf!"

Gandalf doesn't respond, but Frodo immediately steps in my way. I scramble back and bow slightly to him.

"Gandalf is waiting for us," Frodo says quietly, looking me up and down. The blush fades somewhat into view on his face, and he shakes it away. He extends a hand. "He's asked me to come and find you."

I nod and follow Frodo downstairs. I wonder at his distance; did I do something wrong last night? I assume he doesn't want to be seen so vulnerable, much less held by strange woman that he doesn't seem to know his opinions about. I kick away the notion that perhaps he enjoyed it; maybe it comforted him to be held. Of course it did—that's why Gandalf brought me here. I assert that perhaps I must show the Fellowship I can be one with them; most don't seem to mind, but Frodo is the one I wish to get through to. If he can't see me as a person, as one of them, I anticipate being nothing more than what Gandalf expects of me on this journey.

I remain at the back of the group, but before long—while Elrond announces our departure—Gandalf grabs my shoulder and shoves me up towards Frodo. My eyebrow shoots up, but Gandalf stares at me intently, and I stand there. I wonder then if I'm meant to be Frodo's shadow, and decide hesitantly to be so until Gandalf instructs me otherwise.

Frodo asks Gandalf if Mordor is left or right, and before Gandalf responds I do. I quote movie lines with my sister at home whenever I see her, out of childhood habit.

"Left."

Frodo glances back to Gandalf for confirmation, and the wizard glares at me, but nods in affirmation to Frodo. Frodo turns, and his shoulders square with conviction. Gandalf shoves me forward, closer to him, and I stumble back: I don't want contact, not now, not with how distant Frodo appears to be.

Every time I attempt to gravitate to the back of the group as I always do at home, Gandalf keeps me up by Frodo. I attempt to direct my attention to other members of the Fellowship without much success; the wizard is insanely obstinate.

Finally I'm feeling a little irked by the fact that I'm trapped between two opinions and can't satisfy both. I grab Gandalf's sleeve and halt in the middle of the path.

"Gandalf," I hiss softly, "I doubt Frodo wants to be crowded in like this."

Gandalf's response is gruff and urgent. He shoves me back up close towards Frodo. "Just trust me," he snaps, "and everything will work out fine."

I sigh slightly, slumping a little. I notice Frodo looks a little tense, and I feel as though I could apologize. But apologize for what? I feel a little hopeless, certainly out of control. I slump and follow him. It's as though Gandalf expects Frodo to take to me.

Soon we are leaving Rivendell. My breath catches as I turn back to look at the beautiful waterfalls, the pristine, pleasurable chill in the air, the beautiful Elvish architecture. I made a little, two-week life in Rivendell. It reminds me of everywhere I've visited at home: Hawai'i, Ireland, England, Italy, Alaska . . . every time I went somewhere there I felt like I left a piece of me behind as I flew back to Idaho. Now, as I survey the Fellowship passing me by, I wonder if I'll feel the same about Middle Earth.

I linger for another moment before sorrowfully turning away. I'm shocked to see Frodo standing expectantly behind me . . . right behind me. His nose was probably very well touching my back. I swallow at the thought; that scares me a great deal to consider.

"What is it?" I whisper. I kneel down. "Are you all right, Master Baggins?"

His gaze grows odd, and he tilts his head again. "I'm well enough off," he says softly. "I was about to ask the same of you."

I glance back at Rivendell. "It'll be difficult to leave; I'm sure you know what that feels like." Before he can say anything I stand. "Come; let's catch up with the others."

Gandalf and Legolas lead us on, with Gimli close behind them. Boromir insists on Frodo being safe, and so manages to have him up by the front of the little line of hobbits. Pippin trots along behind me, occasionally bumping into me. I glance back at Boromir with suspicion as we go along; I know he wants the Ring, and with how powerful it was against Bilbo he can't be very far from ripping Frodo to pieces.

Suddenly I worry, and I grip the clasp of my cloak as I survey the hobbit walking swiftly before me: what will happen to him? I thought I knew how this story would end; now I'm not so sure. I'm not sure about anything.


	6. Anticipating a Long Walk

**Jayla Fire Gal: Awwwwww; thank you so much! I appreciate knowing you. X) And I'm looking forward to that one-shot . . . I know it'll take a while, but I'll review when it comes!**

 **Me And Not You 1001: Thanks! The entire story is finished as of . . . two months ago? So uploading should be decently consistent. :)**

 **Diem Kieu: Or maybe a mesh. ;) I actually have no idea. Her name wasn't originally "Minah," but that's the one I came up with. :P Well, interesting is certainly accurate. :D Whoo! Thanks so much; those chapters were LOVELY. X) Let the juiciness begin. Not in this story, though.**

I don't recognize this scenery as we walk through the mountains, away from Rivendell. There are a few rocks and ruins, some mountains and forests I might have seen during the short footage of their eternal trek during the film. This place is undoubtedly unlike New Zealand; I wish so desperately to go, but now I'm here in Middle Earth.

I shake my head. I still want to go to New Zealand.

I smirk to myself, and jocosely accuse myself of being a blind fangirl, which I probably am.

We walk all that day. The Fellowship does not drive an immense pace, perhaps on behalf of the hobbits. All four are breathing heavily by the time we are finished; I feel a little exhausted, but I did my share of walking while I got my degree. I smirk again—college taught me a bit more than just history and art.

That night is rather uneventful. They gather around the fire, eating a meal provided by the elves for us on our journey. As I eat, I realize had Tolkien described a scene like this I would be bored out of my mind, but actually living it—feeling the hearty chatter and the safety of my new companions—is all I want for now. I burrow into myself after a few bites; I feel the impact of the danger to arise, the darkness that will shroud them, the darkness I have no control over, much as I think I know about their lives.

I sit against a tree, thinking. Frodo is with the Fellowship, sitting beside Gandalf. His eyes blaze softly in the firelight; they look like pools of sacred water that I feel like I could touch with a finger. The ripples would not be immense, but even and pure. My head cocks again as I study him. He really is uncannily attractive; Tolkien described him that way, but this is certainly different than what I'd ever expected or seen.

I sigh, shaking my head. Perhaps this is all in my mind, that wishful thinking of my desire to separate the idealized, liquid concept of Frodo Baggins from a living person, from Elijah Wood. I know and have analyzed all of one and as little as possible of the other; handling the living always frightens me so, initiates a sinking guilt. I never felt human or present enough to deal with people, and now I'm treated almost like what I wish to be, like a prop in the back of things where I can't hurt or falsely pursue anyone.

Until, of course, Frodo starts staring at me again. The point of being involved with characters is so that I'm not visible, so that I can interact with someone without losing my mind over anxiety: what if I'm hurting them? What if they need my help? What if they don't care?

Somehow I can't handle it, not right now, not tonight, not when I wish I were invisible again like I was before high school. I hiss to myself and skirt the tree, plopping down on the other side. I sigh heavily; ostensibly I should be invisible now. I'm a regular human being with a degree and a goal in secular, modern life, here with the Fellowship of the Ring and a many-year desire to save Frodo Baggins from his fate—just thinking of all the amazing things they've done I know I should be invisible. I'm too normal for them; I'm not like them.

A rustle sounds behind me, and my eyes sink closed. I don't even venture to guess who it is, but it slips my mind before I even coherently get rid of the thought: Frodo. I don't understand what he wants, why he's here.

At last a whisper escapes my mouth for all my overthinking and analysis. But because I'm afraid of his reaction, it comes out rasped.

"I wish I couldn't hurt you."

Frodo doesn't seem to react, and I settle uncomfortably in my cloak. I've never slept on plain, open ground before, but there's a first for everything; before two weeks ago, I'd never slept in an Elvish bed, much less been to an Elvish building, been dragged through time by a wizard, or stalked by a handsome little hobbit . . . or held one in a moment of his deepest pain and struggle.

There are questions I want to ask him, but not now. My eyes flicker. Much as he scares me, I admire him more than almost anyone; I still want to care about him, I still want to help.

I don't fall asleep until the Fellowship is completely quiet. The only light filters through the trees above me, trees that end before the Fellowship's camp. The fire is gone out; the moonlight is stark.

My eyes sink closed, and I allow my breathing to deepen. After twenty minutes or so, as my mind fizzles with an attempt to sleep, Frodo softly steps to my side of the tree. I allow my eyes to creak open, and he pauses in place. I ask nothing; I want to see what he's here for, as if daring him to climb into my arms like I'm his guardian angel.

Frodo looks undeterred. He sinks to his knees and drops into place in front of me. The moonlight silhouettes his face; I can't see his expression now, and I would have to get too close to be able to tell. His eyes shimmer despite the darkness in his face.

I close my eyes, breathing deeply. I hope he doesn't approach me, but I can't say he'll stay back. He still terrifies me.

His soft whisper pierces the air after a long moment.

"Minah."

I inhale slowly and allow my eyes to sink open.

"Yes, Master Baggins?"

Frodo looks shifty, like he's thinking about moving closer, but I don't feel like letting him. I know I won't push him away if he asks me to comfort him—I just envision the things I'm not stubborn enough to do.

"I did ask Gandalf to bring you here," he says at last. "But it isn't perhaps what you think."

One of my eyebrows shoots straight up.

"Indeed?"

He shakes his head. "He and Bilbo were discussing my future." He begins to ramble, nervous it seems, or perhaps desperate, feeling the moment he heard them in when they were talking about his "future." "They wanted me to meet some hobbit lass . . . but Minah, there's a reason I've never courted, and I feel that to be married would be too much."

My face burns; I didn't expect a discussion about matchmaking, and I don't want to encourage it. "And I'm here to convince you that women aren't worth it?"

Frodo gives me a very queer look. "What?"

"Obviously I do not interest you." I lay my head down, trying to appear nonchalant, but the ambivalence of every male in my life to whether or not I care for them has always hurt me just a little. That's how I know I'm not attractive. "You've only thus far mentioned marrying a hobbit lass—such a horrible fate, as it seems—and I'm only guessing that perhaps you struck a deal with Gandalf, that he would try to find you someone, and you told him to find the least capable female there was, described what you wanted in a way that he would find a woman that did not appeal to you at all."

Frodo's jaw drops.

"Now, Minah . . . no. No, that's not it at all," he says hastily. I seal my mouth shut and nod to him; he probably doesn't even regard it before leaping right into explanation. "I simply told him that I didn't want a wife, I wanted something different."

"A servant," I prompt.

He nods, not very hesitant—actually he's rather emphatic. It's probably good that I now know. These people honestly aren't afraid to let me know what I am, and I realize it's probably a cultural thing. Somehow I'm not invisible and I'm still lower than they are.

I accept that response. "And as such, am I simply needed to stay quiet and background?"

Frodo shakes his head; my ears flatten. "Quite the contrary; I only require of you to remain close to me as we travel." He pauses only for a moment before he adds, "And at least give me opportunity to become a friend as the rest of the Fellowship seems to have."

His eyes soften significantly at this, which interests me. The nod I give this time is sincere, and he seems satisfied with that.

"Anything you wish, Master Baggins," I remind him, curling up in my cloak.

Frodo approaches me quietly, huddling some two feet away. "Just Frodo. Just call me Frodo." He waits a moment, but I'm unsure how to respond. He continues. "Please."

I let my eyes drift open. "Yes, Frodo."

He seems satisfied with that and falls asleep within minutes. I stare up at the moon behind him. I'm backed up against a tree; I can't go anywhere.

My breath escapes in a long sigh. This is going to be a long walk.


	7. Nameless Shadow

**Jayla Fire Gal: Yay! I'm glad you feel bad for her. X) I mean, as sadistic authors do . . . Merry Christmas to you too! :D And I am SOO looking forward to that one-shot. I'll be your beta reader if you need one. :)**

 **Me and Not You 1001: Thank you so much for pointing that out; that's a draft name, and I sometimes leave it in on accident. :P I didn't want that to be her actual name, and Minah was pretty much a last-minute for the character. Well, we're just at Fellowship; magic and trouble ahead. ;)**

 **Diem Kieu: Muahaahahahahaahaaa . . . ! Not as much juiciness as I would like, but there's a good one out there. Sort of . . . more like a BIG, romantic Sam. He still has a decent role to play in this. Thanks! And Happy New Year! XD**

I take Frodo's advice to heart: I'm a servant, nothing more. I'm a walking piece of furniture. Frodo is my taskmaster—Minah is now a nameless beast, following him on behalf of his shadow. But although neither of us can or wish to speak for ourselves, I'm not a sizable substitute.

The next day is sunny, oppressive on my eyes. I quote many a sarcastic movie line to myself as I walk, wishing my older sister were here to empathize. But I haven't seen her in three months; while she doesn't live far away, she has three children and one on the way, not much time for her single younger sibling.

I miss the connection we had. I flick my gaze over the Fellowship; the closest one here to her personality is Sam, but her intellect far surpasses his, as does her perfectionism. Perhaps it wouldn't be a bad idea to at least try befriending him.

Soon I begin chatting with the three hobbits behind me. Frodo tilts his head towards us, and in fact joins us. I don't speak to him as much; I don't understand him at all. He acts pleasant towards them, but I manage to avoid talking to him. I bow out a little bit, becoming his shadow as he and his friends interact amongst themselves.

Later that night, the Fellowship is welcoming. Even Gandalf laughs at what I have to say. Frodo is still studying me, and it's almost a little irriating that I can't read him, that he doesn't see me as anything more than what he's told me I am. I feel like if he just gave me the chance, I could understand him better than anyone here.

Merry and Pippin cuddle with me a little as Gimli tells stories about his ancestors of the Lonely Mountain. Eventually Merry falls asleep in my lap and Pippin begins sifting his fingers through my hair; it's fluffy, he tells me. Boromir slips to me that perhaps I would make a great nurturer. I cautiously thank him for the compliment as he nods to me and backs away; Aragorn simply falls asleep, and Legolas helps me to roll Merry and Pippin in their cloaks. I talk to Sam for a while more, as I did in Rivendell—he is a sweet lad, and he is a little like my sister and mother, who are very similar in personality.

I clap his shoulder when we're finished. "Sam," I say, "I don't know how frightening this is for you. But I want you to know that you're destined for great things, to be a hero like you never imagined." I bend close to him and wink. "Give it time; Rosie will love you."

He gawks at me, and I clap his shoulder again, standing up. "You have a stout heart. While that alone cannot save you, it will perhaps save the lives of the ones you love."

Sam thanks me, a little stunned, and wanders off to bed. I smile and settle to sleep right in place, not close to the fire but close enough that—a few minutes later—I hear Frodo and Gandalf talking.

"You can say what you'd like, Gandalf," Frodo says, almost with a sigh. "But I believe you brought her here in an attempt to find me a match. I would like to let you know that over these past few weeks I've realized that there is no possibility of any bonding whatsoever."

Gandalf muses over this for a moment, although he sounds encouraging of Frodo's doubts in spite of his words. "Why not? Give it time; Bilbo is quite fond of her, as are the rest of your friends."

"Understanding what I do about her, it's impossible." Frodo sounds exasperated, and I cringe to myself. They continue on that for some time, completely picking it apart. My eyes roll farther and farther back, and my grip tightens on my cloak. I feel the blush on my face and neck; I avoid being an irritation at all costs, and have always been good at it at home. If I can't do anything right here, I might as well tell them this is how it will be.

I stand abruptly, and both of them jolt. I walk over to the fire, letting my aggravation simmer before I speak. Both of them stare up at me. Frodo stands after a moment of shock and opens his mouth to say something, but I won't take it. My hand goes up first.

"Now listen," I start. I don't stare at the eyes of either of them until I feel dead serious, which doesn't take long. "I didn't knowingly volunteer to come here. I do not complain for being brought here; I am aware of the circumstances, and perhaps a great deal more than either of you are familiar with. I'm not here to encourage any matchmaking, _Gandalf_ ,"—he lets his gaze fall to the ground at this—"or to settle familial affairs, _Frodo._ " His gaze doesn't leave mine, and my voice softens. "I'm just here to help. And if I can't do that, I shouldn't be here."

There is no response. I nod to them. "Good night. I hope you both get sleep." I turn my back on them both and roll up in my cloak. I meant every word that I said, and I hope they take it to heart; but I feel sick. What if Gandalf sends me home?

I uneasily fall asleep not knowing where I'll wake up.


	8. The Cloak Falls

**Diem Kieu: Yeah, I was going to put up a warning about that; sorry! :P But this one is longer; apparently I wrote REALLY short sections to this story. Oooohhh, yep! Just not yet, unfortunately. :/ You too! Have a great 2017!**

 **Jayla Fire Gal: Thanks! You too! Tell me how the year goes!**

 **Me And Not You 1001: Thank you. :) I figured she had to be good at something. XD I'm kidding; I honestly like Minah. I got a little attached to her in the sequel story.**

When I awaken I've been turned over, and Frodo is sleeping nearby. My eyes narrow, and I sit up slowly to find Gandalf. He's sleeping in the loose cluster of the rest of the Fellowship. Like the night before, I came here to be alone; then I realize I haven't exactly made myself evident to Frodo. That was the biggest thing he told Gandalf last night: I never talk to him.

On purpose, I realize. He's not exactly on a social level where I can talk to him . . .

Save that his other servant is his best friend.

I rub my eyes. I feel ridiculous now—servants aren't invisible. Perhaps Gandalf wants me to be, but I can't, not with Frodo doing what he is. I sigh, wondering if Frodo will let me turn around. I can make a transition; it won't be hard, not for how I feel about everything I know about him with regards to the story I'm familiar with.

I inhale and exhale slowly. I have a mission; I know the story. Things may be more intense, or perhaps different, but I'm here to change things. I'm here to help Frodo destroy the Ring. I eye Gandalf as though he can hear my thoughts, but the wizard doesn't stir.

Attempting not to awaken Frodo, I step up and over to the remains of the fire that Gandalf put out last night. I grab a pair of stones and hope this works; I've done this before, but not in years. I gather a few smaller sticks and set some larger ones aside for later; there's a piece of paper—a small one—in my pocket if I can just get the right amount of friction to get it lit.

After about ten minutes I'm ready to give up. I sigh and set the rocks aside.

"Heck if I know how to do this," I mutter. Then my head cocks; I haven't said anything anachronously informal since I've arrived here, and I wonder if irritation has something to do with it. Or perhaps now that I've decided to change to an old attitude about Frodo it makes a difference, but I actually have no idea.

Then a pair of small hands covers mine, and I flinch.

"Here," Frodo says softly. When I glance over my shoulder at him, his face is bright pink. "Try it this way." He places the rocks in my hands and angles them, gently shielding my knuckles with tender fingers. He guides my fingertips out of the way of the frictitious pieces of stone, then rapidly scrapes the rocks back and forth. He keeps his eyes locked on the stone, for once not watching me. Now I'm watching him.

Sparks spring to life on the paper, slowly spreading to the small sticks.

I cautiously lay a hand on his shoulder, if nothing else to get my hand out of his. He's locked his fingers around my hands, and when I remove one he adjusts his grip just to one.

"Thank you," I say, turning to reach into my pack for breakfast, or at least a breakfast for Frodo. He's right back to watching me then, and he reaches back for his own pack.

"Frodo, I've got it," I insist. "Eat some of mine; you'll want yours for later." I'm sure, in spite of my height and love of food, he'll eat more than I will.

Frodo smiles and shakes his head. "You don't have to do everything for me."

One of my eyebrows shoots straight up as I remove five sausages from my pack and slip them from their leaf wrappings. This is so peculiar to me, but I suppose I'll have to get used to it: we have a long journey ahead of us. I slip the sausages into a little pan leftover from when Sam had used it for dinner last night, and I slip a little bit of bread from my pack. I rip off a piece and hand it to Frodo. He lets his fingers grace mine as he takes it, and my eyebrow locks in place. I'm not sure it will ever fall at this rate. I suppose his actions have become somewhat predictable, but that doesn't make them understandable.

As he eats, he nods to my pack. "Aren't you going to eat any?"

I throw it off and carefully turn the meat with my fingers. "Nah. I'm not hungry yet; I think I'll save as much food as possible." I glance up at the glowing dawn, quickly fading into a scattering of clouds. I sit back, suddenly taken by the gold and red in the silver light. "We've only just begun."

Suddenly Frodo is by my side. He nestles under my arm, and now I'm really confused. I wonder if it has anything to do with that night in Rivendell, if that realization has brought this onto him, but it's an odd time for that.

"Minah, I'm sorry," he says quietly.

My eyes bulge as I stare down at him. "For what?"

His gaze flickers to the ground. "I'm not sure," he says finally. "But you were distraught last night." His eyes rise to meet mine. "I don't understand, but . . . but Minah, I'm not careless."

I nod sincerely, glancing at Sam. "I've noticed. Especially not with servants."

He reaches up and gently turns my face back to look at him. I swallow; my pulse escalates in speed with the contact. I'm not often touched, and I don't often touch, but Frodo doesn't seem to mind. I realize perhaps he doesn't touch often either . . . but that's what I'm here for, and he's always known that.

"You're here to help me," he says softly, "but could we at least be on good terms?"

"We're not?"

His hand slacks into my lap, and I have a powerful temptation to pluck it off. He slips it away before the temptation grows stronger, as though noticing my inner discomfort. "No," he admits. "You're rather distanced . . . but only with me."

"There is a reason for that," I say quickly. He settles in place, suddenly looking interested. I suck in a breath and slowly let it out. "I'm not accustomed to servitude, I suppose, and at home . . . well . . . servitude is seen differently." I glance up at Sam again, his sweet little form slumped in the short grass. "But I understand; I promise, I do."

I lean forward suddenly, wrapping my hands in my cloak to slide the little pan off the fire. Frodo glances rather ambivalently down at the sausage.

"Are you hungry?" I ask hopefully.

Frodo glances up at me. "If you eat some, yes." When I hesitate at the thought, Frodo grows more solemn, if that were possible. "Minah, I don't think friendship ought to be avoided. Here." He unfolds my fingers. I have a feeling he's touching me on purpose; or perhaps his character is just different than I ever knew, but I haven't seen him do it to anyone else. He slips a sausage into my grip and takes one for himself. He nods to me when I hesitate.

I eat slowly, and I thank him when I'm finished. I glance up at the rising sun. "We should probably be going, or at least wake up those that will eat their whole weekly ration in one go." I nod to Pippin and Merry . . . and for once I hear a laugh from Frodo. I blink; it sounds so familiar. I know I've heard it before, in film, in my mind—but I never realized what kind of impact it would have on me. I glance up at him, unable to keep a smile down.

Then I realize, at the sudden strength of the Ring, that maybe I'll never hear it again.

~0~

After this morning Frodo opens up very quickly. I'm actually a little surprised at what I see in him: he's rather good-natured, but he doesn't mind pulling Merry or Pippin's leg just a little. He's not aggressive . . . but he's very witty. Sometimes he says things that I catch, sarcastic comments under his breath that would amuse few, even if they understood them.

I ask him as we walk, as well as late into the night, about what he's been through. I tell him my version of the story, and he says it's a little bit different. He tells me my consideration of his life with Bilbo is fairly accurate, what little I know of it, but in Bree he didn't hear Sauron's voice speaking to him: he heard a woman, a deep, lulling voice in his mind.

My brow furrows. I wonder if this makes the Ring more dangerous or has no effect on the matter. I ask him about Weathertop, as gently as I can. He winces as he recalls it. He says he kept his sword when I ask him if he dropped it, and he says the first Morgul blade that appeared he crushed. He didn't put the Ring on until after the Ringwraiths managed to get a cut on his arm. He shows me the scar, and I trace it carefully: it looks awful. It's an angry red scar, just one more mark of proof that he will sacrifice everything he has to be rid of this Ring.

He lifts aside his shirt, and my eyes widen—the scar isn't on his shoulder as I had deceived myself to believe the first time I saw it, but over his heart. It throbs when I see it.

He eyes me carefully. "You may touch it," he says softly, but I don't dare. He reaches forward, shakily bringing my fingers up to the wound. He presses my palm against his chest; I feel every bit of movement that keeps him alive, the swell of his lungs, the echo of his heartbeat, the warmth of his skin. I swallow at the thought, that these are the things I wish to protect.

Frodo doesn't lower my hand. He rubs his thumb over my knuckles; I get the feeling he appreciates the comfort. "Minah, you know pieces of my history. How is it possible?"

I sit back, and he lets my hand fall slightly from his scar. But he doesn't release it. His fingers are so small, they can hardly meet around my palm. I snicker slightly, wrapping my fingers around his hand.

"I study," I say gently. "I study the art of stories . . . and yours is a great one." I reach up and cautiously cup his pale cheek; he seems taken aback only for a moment, as his eyes flicker uncertainly and his jaw slackens a little. My thumb reverently strokes the side of his face while he leans into my touch. Then I remember: Gandalf is going to die, potentially, when we reach the mines of Moria. I can see the pain on this face I've grown to care a little bit for, the agony when he realizes his mentor is gone. "A great one, full of tribulation and unfair events. But Frodo, that's why I'm here. I'm here to help." I swallow and glance at the ground for a fleeting moment, but he needs to know I mean these next words. "You just have to trust me, let me be there for you."

"Of course I will," he replies immediately.

I bite my lip. "I fear there will be moments when you wish to be alone."

Frodo sidles up close to me. "Minah, if there are, I want you to remind me of this moment. Remind me why you're here. Remind me that you can help."

I embrace him before I fall asleep that night.

I ask Gandalf the next morning how many days we have headed towards the Misty Mountains. He regards me skeptically, but then admits we have forty-one. I suck in a breath; I have one last night to speak to Frodo before we head up to Caradhras, if my guesses are correct.

Later, as I speak to him, I try to learn as much as possible. These past few days have been wonderful getting to know him, and now I think I have a base of emotion that will allow me to fight his obstacles and insist the dangers of the world leave him alone.

He tells me about the Shire, more about what life was like there. I ask him if he knew dancing very well, and he admits he would receive more requests to dance from the ladies than Pippin and Merry put together. I announce that I now must dance with him, and he shows me a little. I'm far too tall, but what he shows me works out relatively well. He asks me if I know, and I tell him I know a form of dancing that would require him to be a little taller, or me to be shorter. He hesitantly concedes to that, and we're right back to talking.

Eventually, though, we turn from past events to future ones. Frodo admits that he's afraid, afraid of what is to come, of the decision he's made.

"You have every right to be afraid," I admit gravely. I cover his hand with my own, as has become habit between us over the last great while. "There is much pain before you . . . but in the end, in the very end, you know how to smile again. Everything wronged will hopefully be righted."

His brow furrows, and he glances up at me. "Hopefully?"

I sigh and glance at the ground. Frodo sidles closer to me; he reaches under my cloak and braces his hand between my shoulders. "I cannot promise you will want everything to go back to the way it was," I say slowly. "I know exactly what happens for circumstance, but I don't know what you'll think. In all my study there was never an explanation to exactly what you felt, for I suppose most people couldn't really describe it."

Frodo shudders a little, and I wrap my arm around his shoulders, pulling him close to me. I slack against a nearby rock, surrounding him with my cloak. I squeeze his warm, little body against mine—he doesn't relax much for a minute.

He also doesn't say anything for a long moment. Finally he whispers softly.

"Perhaps I never should have taken it." This is a little early for doubts, and I realize perhaps I'm frightening him a little too much. Maybe I'm undermining his courage, not preparing him for the future. "I don't know that I can do it. I'm nothing more than a hobbit."

I swallow. "Would you like me to tell you how it ends, Frodo?"

He glances up at me and nods slightly.

I sigh and sit back. He follows, nestling against my side. "I won't tell you details," I say softly, "but in the end the Ring is destroyed . . . the Shire is saved . . . and the ones you love are still alive."

As I speak Frodo adjusts his position, curling up at my hip with his head on my stomach. I can hardly breathe for trying not to make him feel unstable. He nestles again there.

"What else matters, then?" he mutters, growing exhausted.

Despite the sweetness in his voice and perhaps the tenderness of the moment, I can't bring myself to smile. He doesn't care about himself enough to look after his own well-being right now: that's what Sam was for in the original story. Frodo would have been lost earlier on, taking more care for the world than for his own benefit. I swear to myself to carry what he can't, and what Sam doesn't know to bear.

I have a sudden thought—I will carry Frodo through Mordor. My conviction settles and hardens; I only hope it won't crumble and blow away.

Eventually Frodo slacks off of my lap, asleep. He curls up into himself, trying in vain with subconscious effort to wrap his feet in his cloak. I remove my own, laying it over his exposed feet and anything else his cloak can't reach.

I don't sleep much; my eyes are fixed on his pale face. He's such a sweet creature.

 _I know what happens,_ I pray. _Let me take it._

 **Reviews are always appreciated! Especially from you that have already reviewed; you guys make my day. X)**


	9. I Can't Make That Choice

**Diem Kieu: XD! Yes, chemistry! *boils evil plans in cauldron* :D Thanks so much! (I liked that scene too . . .)**

 **La Femme Absurde: I totally understand. :) And I seriously should explain my experiments before I do them, so I'll probably edit the first chapter and warn of slight character change. Thanks for the review! I hope the rest of the story is better for you.**

 **Jayla Fire Gal: I'm so glad you like! Gets sweeter later on. ;) Awww-that's wonderful! Well, some of my friends have been struggling and it'll be interesting to start college this year, but otherwise I'm doing just fine, thanks. :)**

 **Me And Not You 1001: It is quite the break, isn't it? :) Alas, this story . . . well, I'll probably have an AU ending for it instead, because it certainly doesn't end right. So I'll fix that before I publish it, I promise. :)**

 **EnnuiCoffee: Thanks so much! :D No, no end you; exalt you! X) I try to upload every Saturday . . . usually very late in the day. :P I hope you enjoy! (PS Is your username a reference to Gilmore Girls, by chance?)**

The next morning we're walking on the brink of a steep, stony cliff. I won't say I have a fear of heights, but I will say I am a cautious person. I stand with my shoulder shoved up against the wall of the path, keeping an eye on Frodo and occasionally flicking my gaze to the cliff drop. I can't see the ground at the base of the cliff; I'll fall over from anxiety if I do.

But instead of me falling, Pippin does.

I cry his name and peek over the edge. The distance to the ground dizzies me . . . but the fall isn't very steep. Pippin's dropped into the stones and rolls for a moment before he grabs a handful and slows to a halt.

"I'm fine!" he calls out shakily. Merry reaches down to go get him, but I leap off the lip of the cliff first.

Boromir's voice stops me. My eyes sink shut at his words.

"Minah, you are a lady," he calls out, but he's too far behind, where the drop isn't so level off the side of the cliff, and Sam and Merry are in his way. "You should allow the men to bring him up."

I reach down and grab Pippin's hand obstinately, lifting him off the rocks. Pippin is still shaking, and I make a mental note to console him later, perhaps cuddle with him a little bit. Although I couldn't use it, he might be able to.

"I may be a lady," I start back at Boromir as we ascend the cliff, "but I'm also a servant here. And lady or not, servant or not, I have the chance to help." I give him my most solid stare, but the way he studies me terrifies me. I swallow and grab Pippin's hand, and we continue on the path together.

Frodo glances back at me periodically. I realize that being the only female in the group does make me just a little bit of a spotlight . . . and suddenly I want Pippin to let go. But he doesn't; he's perfectly happy where he is.

We leave the cliffside. Suddenly I recognize the pile of rock in the distance.

The crebain are going to come.

I abandon the hobbits and race to Gandalf's side as we walk swiftly towards the rocks. Frodo gravitates to my side, but I can't pay attention to him now.

"Gandalf," I hiss. "Saruman is sending spies; we cannot take this road."

Gandalf halts suddenly, staring down at me. I suddenly shrink under the intense stare he gives me, at the evident burn in his gaze. I've done something horribly wrong.

"I told you not to interfere," he says sternly. "You will leave us to our own devices or be sent away." Without another word—much less a thanks of any sort—he tears himself away, walking faster than ever towards the rocks.

I bite my lip, comforted only when Frodo nudges limply against my side.

"What spies?" he asks quietly.

I lean down; Gandalf can tell me not to interfere, but Frodo is the one I answer to first, not the wizard. "They look like ravens." I point to the distance. "They'll appear there, and we'll need to hide amongst the rocks. I think they see us anyway . . . report back to Saruman." Then I glance up at the mountain. "And then Gandalf takes us up Caradhras because this path is not safe, and you drop the Ring—,"

Frodo gives a powerful lurch and stares up at me with wide eyes. "What?!"

I hold up a hand. "I told you it got destroyed in the end, though, didn't I?"

Frodo nods slowly, then glances up at the mountain. I gently clap his shoulder. "But if it would make you feel better, I think I can keep you from dropping it. Gandalf told me I shouldn't interfere, but Frodo . . . I wonder if I could. Would you permit it?"

He nods again. "As long as you don't hurt yourself."

"That shouldn't even be an issue." I pause, thinking about Shelob, Gollum. I shudder. "This time."

~0~

It goes exactly as I predicted; soon we're headed towards the mountain. I tell Frodo as we begin up the snowy slopes that he's going to fall over, roll down, and lose the Ring that way. He shivers as he hangs onto my arm, and soon I have him tucked under my arm and bound in my cloak. I don't want him to be this cold only to turn around and go to Moria, but I know Gandalf doesn't want to go through that way.

He'll go through soon.

My eyes bulge; should I warn Frodo . . . or save Gandalf . . . or let it go?

I hesitate as I lead Frodo through the snow. My feet are growing numb through my boots, but I hardly notice until suddenly my legs stop working. I abruptly let go of Frodo, rolling through the snow. The chill bites my bare skin, and I shudder with the onslaught of pain.

"Minah!"

 _No . . ._ I think as I shiver numbly. _Don't come back; you'll lose it._

A pair of strong hands helps me to my feet, and a cloak wraps around me. I glance up to see Aragorn standing by my side.

"Thank you," I manage. Frodo catches up to us at the back, and Boromir follows him. He glances up at me—I'm not sure how to describe it. He's searching for something, but he doesn't seem worried. He seems anticipatory. I swallow and burrow into Aragorn's cloak.

Frodo lifts my cloak over his head. "Minah, you need this more than I do."

I don't even have the strength to reach out and take it from him. "I'm glad you're looking out for me," I admit, my voice trembling, "but I don't. I'm all right."

Boromir then steps up behind Frodo, and a growl builds up in my lungs as he puts a hand on the hobbit's shoulder. Frodo stiffens, but doesn't turn around.

"He's right," Boromir says; he sounds unusually focused. His gaze pierces mine, and he extends a gloved hand for me to take. My eyebrow cocks worriedly. "Come walk with me. I can keep you warm . . ." Then his gaze falls on Frodo before him. "Unless you are so solidified in your duty."

I nod hurriedly, glad he's given me an outlet. "My goal here is not so much to be warm but to keep him so. I thank you."

Boromir shakes his head, glancing down at Frodo. His hand falls on Frodo's chest, tracing the Ring. Aragorn grabs his sword hilt, and I nearly lunge from his grip. Frodo stiffens again in place, ready to bolt if necessary, or so I hope.

"Strange that there should be so much effort invested, on the part of so many . . . over such a little thing."

I calculate when Aragorn will speak (according to the film; under this chronology I'm not certain) and snap Boromir's name right along with him. For a moment it gives me chills to realize I've quoted a line in sync with a character standing behind me, until I remember just how serious the situation is and I right myself.

Boromir releases Frodo, and the hobbit abruptly races into me, turning around to face Boromir. Frodo has great courage for his size, but at least he knows when not to linger.

"Why fear?" Boromir says, ostensibly nonchalant. "I care not." He reaches forward, and I pull Frodo back in anticipation that Boromir will ruffle his hair . . . but he doesn't. He cups my cheek before chuckling and moving on. I let out a long-held breath, squeezing Frodo close to me.

I bend down close. "Mind him. He's the first to fall prey to the Ring."

Frodo's eyes widen again, but only for a moment: I think he's learning not to be surprised. "First? Do they all . . . ?"

I hesitate as we continue forward, leaving Aragorn a small distance behind. I keep us apart on purpose; no one else needs to hear this. "Depending on what decisions you make, they could."

"What must I do?"

His conviction breaks my heart. I bite my lip, glancing down at the snow—he's always been this way.

"Nothing for the present," I say softly. I rub his shoulder; I want to don him in my cloak again, but I don't know if he'll take it. I concede just to wrap it around him from my neck. "For now manage the cold." Gandalf's death materializes in my mind. "The day affords sufficient sorrow."

Frodo's brow furrows, but he doesn't ask.

Soon we're marching through the harsh winds of the peak, and the sky grows darker as we ascend. I lift Frodo off the ground as best I can, squeezing him close to me. I tell him he'll want to keep warm, and he should burrow into me if at all possible. He buries his face in my neck and shoulder, curled up against my torso in my arms.

My lips soon grow numb, followed by my nose. I'm glad I know we'll turn back soon.

But we pass an area that seems familiar . . . without any hindrance from Saruman. I swallow to myself; perhaps Gandalf will live. Perhaps we will succeed going through Caradhras, get down to the actual ground that way.

Then feet stop moving behind me. I glance back, only to find Boromir frantically pressing his fingers to Pippin's jugular artery.

"Boromir!" I call out.

He glances up. "The hobbits are freezing to death!" He peers around me. "Gandalf, we must get off the mountain!"

As if on cue, I begin to hear Saruman's voice. I brace for impact, backing against the mountainside, and snow piles down. Frodo looks up, and I lower his head back down on my shoulder as a cascade of weight shoves me down to the ground. My head bangs against the rock, and I almost cry out save the pressure crushing my lungs and head suddenly.

Knowing Frodo is in perhaps more danger than I am, I scramble with one arm to push off the snow. I'm unsuccessful, and I begin to panic. I shove against the snow with everything I have. Most of it is too heavy; a clump falls from my foot, and I kick to dig the rest of it off. The snow falls from on top of me, and I get the feeling someone's digging me out. When I can finally breathe again, I glance up, but can't remove myself from the snow. Legolas extends his hand, and I grab it. He easily lifts me onto the snow, the packed snow where he's been walking.

"Are you all right?" He looks genuinely worried, and that reassures me a little. I nod shakily and thank him, then pull back my tightly wrapped cloak. Frodo's lips are purple, his face bright red. I reach up with what little strength I have and cup his cheek. He frantically presses my palm over his mouth; his lips are cold, but soft, and I shiver a little at the contact.

Boromir calls out to Gandalf again, and I step down into the path of snow. Gandalf turns to Frodo and announces that the Ringbearer will decide what we do.

Frodo immediately looks to me, and so does Gandalf. I receive a dark glare from the wizard, and a hopeful glance from Frodo.

"All of your choices have irreperable consequences," I say mournfully. "This decision is not one I can make for you."

His countenance falls, and he glances up at Gandalf. Boromir insists that this will be the death of the hobbits once again.

"Frodo," Gandalf says urgently.

"At least let me help him!" I insist.

Gandalf hesitates, then nods briefly. I glance down at Frodo.

"You aren't going to want any of the options," I say gently, "but suffice it to say that it will turn out for the best if you choose what you feel is right."

Frodo turns back to Gandalf. "We will go through the mines."

The words cut through me, but at least as far as I'm aware Gandalf will be safe. Frodo asks me from time to time if I made the right decision, and I tell him I only know the whole story of one decision, but that it does work out. I wish I could warn him, but he'd turn around and we would either lose the Ring to Gondor or let the hobbits freeze to death on the mountain.

I decide that since Gandalf let me interfere this once, perhaps he'll allow me to do it again, save Frodo for at least a moment. Considering for the best, if I let Gandalf become white he can fight the war. But Frodo won't understand. I'm still not sure what to do.


	10. Not the Best Day for Encounters

**Diem Kieu: It does . . . I did need something other than sappiness. XD But the chemistry will come! And I'm writing a different ending to the story that is more . . . um . . . chemistry-al? than the original. :) So I promise, it will come up, but there is canon for a while. :P**

 **Jayla Fire Gal: Well, I've never thought of Frodo as hateful, but you never know. ;) I'm kidding; thank goodness I didn't pick a turbulent character for this medium. Actually, I've only ever seen that one scene for Aca Deca (because we're studying a protagonist that deals with ennui) . . . sorry. :/ But I hear it's awesome! If I get the opportunity, I will totally watch it.**

 **Me and Not You 1001: *glances innocently away* Weeeeeeellll, sort of. XP But not really. Ish. Thanks! X) That gives me the warm fuzziness inside. Pretty much. :P But we make it more troubled because angst is a thing. XD**

 **EnnuiCoffee: :D Movie lines are my first language; I'm so happy when references come up! Thanks so much! Yes . . . the feels . . . muahahahahahahaaaa . . . I've completed the story and there are many of the feels waiting. Congratulations! Isn't it fantastic?**

 **Chapter is full of blood and bruises and fainting. You have been warned. :D**

As we approach the mines, Frodo finally asks me.

"What are the consequences of coming?"

I open my mouth to respond, but Gandalf summons me forward. Frodo follows, and Gandalf wraps his arm around my shoulder, ostensibly leaning on me for support.

"What have you told him?" he murmurs.

I glance down at Frodo. "Just that all will be taken by the Ring if he stays," I whisper. "I'm sure he's already felt it's power growing."

Frodo swallows, and his fingers drift up towards his neck. My eyes squeeze shut: it's too early for that. Then I rationalize that if the Ring is stronger than I thought, it shouldn't surprise me at all. I remember I thought perhaps further awareness on Sam's part might have helped, but I don't know what I can do to help at all. I know Sam couldn't have known, but had he known . . . I hope he can help.

I leave my gaze on Frodo. "And that he can only trust himself."

Gandalf glances down at me, then motions for Frodo to carry on. The hobbit hesitantly leaves me behind, but only a pace or two before he halts and settles against the rock.

"I brought you here so he had another one to trust," Gandalf says almost accusatorily. I half glare up at him; either the Ring can take me or it can't. I haven't felt anything yet, and I gather it's because I don't belong to this world. "But you've impacted too much."

I sigh, slightly defeated. "I've changed what I have for his benefit. Can I really destroy all that he's working for?"

Gandalf nods assertively. "Any action you take could affect him for the worse, Minah." He grows more exasperated, perhaps a little more worrisome. "You only know what will happen until you alter it. I brought you here to be a comfort and a comfort alone; if you are anything more you could kill him."

My knees buckle slightly. Gandalf begins to walk forward, but I catch his cloak as my mind drifts to the Grey Havens. So it turned out for the better in the end . . . but my mind goes back even farther. The Red Book at the desk; I can envision this Frodo— _my_ Frodo—in pain for years before he's finally released to leave a painful, relatively useless existence. I've never been capable of thinking of someone as useless, but Tolkien basically sold it that way . . . that his purpose was finished.

"Gandalf, can't I keep him from—?" I decide not to tell Gandalf Frodo will someday go to the Grey Havens. I argue with myself over what to say until I finally figure something out that will hopefully make sense to the wizard. "How can I stand back and watch him suffer through all of this? I'm here to comfort him, like you said, and that's impossible without being a help. If I leave myself out of events, what makes me different from being an offender to him?"

Gandalf grabs my shoulder so hard I think he's going to pop it. I suck in a breath, wincing at the pressure.

"You don't understand," he hisses. I know he doesn't mean to cause me pain; I think he knows I'm being obstinate. "What I'm telling you is that you will offend him by attempting to help. You may know a few things about our world, but you understand so little. In defending him you will be his end."

My brows furrow. "If you know this, can you tell me what I'll do wrong?"

The wizard exhales powerfully. "Minah . . . I brought you here to be in the background because I don't know exactly what you'll do to him, save one thing. He's growing fond of you, as you are of him. But it's not your place to remain here. In spite of all I can do, you cannot belong to him. At the rate this connection is growing, I fear ripping you apart will break one or both if you don't distance yourself now."

Now not just my knees decide to buckle. My gaze falls to the ground, and I start to feel sick. I never thought about going home, about leaving him.

"Gandalf, we'll be careful," I manage. "We're two different races; we can't fall in love. Besides, I already know all there is to know about Frodo Baggins . . . and even a little beyond that!"

Gandalf glares at me; I wonder if he thinks I'm trying to lie my way through this. "It's not only that. I fear your attempt to protect him from the harms that come upon him will hurt both of you. Accidents could happen; in saving him from one fate you could subject Frodo to a worse one." Then he glances down at the little dagger belt around me. "Give me your belt, Minah."

I hesitate and untie it from my hips, lowering it into his hands. He slips it into a pouch at his side, and I wonder what he's getting at. I don't have time to ask before Frodo's hand wraps suddenly around mine. I flinch; I didn't notice him, but now I turn as we gaze on the grandeur of Moria. I knew it was right there, and know what it looks like, but it's so much more intimidating than I realized. I gawk in spite of myself, and Frodo tugs me forward.

Things go rather as expected. I let Frodo figure out the riddle on the door and snicker to myself; that's a characterization moment I hoped wouldn't be different. But then I realize, as we enter, that Pippin and Merry have already thrown rocks into the lake. I shudder as we enter Moria; I must protect Frodo from that water creature.

I'm thinking so far ahead that I don't realize Boromir hasn't noted the skeletons on the floor. I glance down; there aren't any.

My eyes widen as I glance back up into the tunnel. No corpses, anywhere. I see abandoned arrows in some places, and I wonder what happened to the dwarves' remains.

I leave Frodo's side briefly and grab an arrow. I turn to Legolas and softly call out his name.

The elf nimbly leaps over to me; I offer him the arrow, shivering with slight anticipation.

"Look familiar?"

His eyes widen almost imperceptibly. "Goblins," he whispers, but I barely register that before I hear a cry from Frodo. My head snaps up, only to find him being dragged to the exit of the tunnel by a long tentacle.

I take the arrow back from Legolas and scramble to grab more arrows on the way out. The hobbits are already drawing their swords, racing to help Frodo. Aragorn is also a few steps ahead of me until I have a handful of arrows; I leap past him.

"We're coming, Frodo, I promise," I mutter under my breath as I leap back out into the moonlight. The hobbits are attacking the legs of the creature, but the thing has Frodo too close to its mouth for my liking. I leap into the water, attempting to avoid the thrashing tentacles around me. I get whacked in the face, and it stings for a long moment. My jaw drops with the pain, and I limply clutch my face. The creature snaps at Frodo's foot, which barely escapes being hacked off. I grab one of my arrows and shove it into the creature's mouth—it throws me back with a screech, and I slam against the wall of Moria. My spine screams in agony, and my muscles are aching with protest. I manage to get a moan out; the world blurs with red and blue, flashes dark to light and back.

I can only form the hope that Frodo is safe.

~0~

When I awaken a pair of little arms squeeze my torso almost so tightly I can't breathe. My eyes flicker open, and more sense comes to me: I can only assume the one holding me is Frodo, because black curls fill half my vision. My cheek is up against his . . . and it's a little drenched. My shoulder is embedded in his chest, and his fingers rub my arm softly.

"Frodo," I manage. My voice rasps, and my spine is a wreck. He halts in place; I didn't realize he was shaking until he stopped. "Frodo, it's okay." But it's not—I can't even reach up to touch him, I'm so sore.

He jolts at the sound of my voice, and he pulls away. I smile weakly at him; his tears color my cheek, and he immediately draws me back into his arms. His lungs shudder against my torso, and I shake my head, breathing harder as I realize how much pain he must be in, the shock of being tossed by that creature.

"Frodo . . . oh, Frodo . . ." I shift to right myself, squeezing Frodo close to me. He gently wraps his arms around my waist, lifting me over to rest against a rock. My breaths come halted; I'm in too much pain to do otherwise. My bones and muscles ache uncontrollably, and I have burning patches all over. Frodo hesitates, his mouth slightly ajar, as though he doesn't entirely know what to say. He cups my cheek softly; the skin there is tender, and I have no doubt it's badly bruised.

He bites his lip. "Minah, promise me you won't do that again."

My eyebrows crease, and I attempt to sit up and protest. He holds me down rather adamantly, and it's unusually difficult to fight against it. I struggle slightly before I give up.

"At least I tried to keep you from dying," I mutter.

Frodo shakes his head. "Perhaps. But you're badly hurt; Gandalf says you won't be able to walk for a while."

My eyebrows narrow this time. "What is he talking about? I can get up." I move to stand, but my spine shatters with burning pain. I cry out and sit back. Frodo scrambles to my shoulder, pinning me to the rock as though I would try again.

"Maybe I should rest a little," I breathe. Then I glance up at him; he's a decent distance away, and I feel relatively safe. "But I can't do anything for you in a position like this."

Frodo shakes his head. "You can save your strength. On my behalf, if it makes you feel better."

I nod slowly. "Is there anything else?"

His eyes flicker, and he glances away. Then his gaze meets mine once again, and with great effort I wrap my arm around his shoulders, squeezing him close to me. He settles softly there, gently rubbing my spine.

We say nothing for a while. Gandalf finally approaches us and gravely explains that even if I can't walk, it's time to go. Frodo offers to carry me, and I snicker slightly; he may be the subconsciously condescending master of Bag End, but he's got a great deal of naivety and goodness to him. Then Boromir and Legolas both volunteer, the former a little too frightening. I imagine Legolas is simply being noble, and I accept his offer. I wish I could tell Boromir that Legolas simply asked first—and he did—but that isn't why.

I tell him I'll let him carry me eventually, then bite my lip. Boromir nods slowly, and his eyes don't leave me as Legolas hefts me easily into his arms and carries me deep into the darkness of Moria.

Frodo doesn't leave Legolas's side. The two don't speak to each other much, but periodically Frodo asks Legolas if he thinks I'm all right. Legolas politely nods to Frodo, and they make light conversation as we go . . . as light as it can be in circumstances such as these.

Finally we reach the steep stairs. I have no doubt Legolas can carry me up, or at least I don't for a minute. Legolas stares firmly up them, and easily leaps from one step to another, still holding me. I sharply inhale and grasp his shoulders; I realize that most fangirls at home would be fawning over an opportunity like this, but frankly I just want to get down. We safely reach the top, and I wonder if I ought to put out there that I want to write a reader/Legolas story where he carries them up the stairs as nimbly as he did me just then.

They would certainly appreciate his arms around them, I think, and their arms around his broad shoulders. I shrug to myself; Legolas isn't the worst thing that's happened to me, but he isn't the one I care about most.

I peer over Legolas at Frodo, who is quickly mounting the stairs with his hands and feet. I realize Frodo's too short to climb them initially; sometimes I forget. I may walk with him a great deal, but most of the time when I'm paying that much attention to him we're sitting down and—well, likely I'm just holding him.

Legolas hesitates at the top of the stairs, and I remember Gandalf doesn't know where to go. I consider showing him, or walking myself, but to do the first is to remove the advantage of Gollum's backstory from Frodo, and to do the latter is probably physically impossible. I thank Legolas, and he hesitantly sets me down. I let him know it'll be a little while before we're moving again, and while I know it's probably just the lack of movement in the moment I feel much better.

Frodo joins me almost immediately, but doesn't seem so concerned this time. He casually sits down a foot away from me, and I get the feeling perhaps he's worried about something. Gandalf's conversation with Frodo about Gollum carries through; it isn't comforting for me at all, not when Gandalf says that Frodo is meant to have the Ring. It isn't encouraging at all.

But when Frodo says he wishes the Ring had never come to him, I join Gandalf in his words, allowing my voice to carry. I don't realize the wizard hasn't said the whole thing with me—I glance over at him and Frodo, only to find that they're both watching me. I blush slightly.

"I'm sorry," I mutter. "Carry on."

Gandalf claps Frodo's shoulder. "She already knows. Ask her should you forget yourself." I snicker, but then I wonder if I've coerced Gandalf into permitting me certain freedoms pertaining to the chronology of the story. Perhaps I've pushed it a little too far.

The wizard sits carefully next to me. "Minah, I must tell you why I brought you here."

I sit up. "You've reminded me every day since I got to Rivendell," I point out doubtfully.

Gandalf gives me a rather crusty look, and I shy away a little. "Your purpose was always set in stone, but I chose you of the many millions I could have because of particular reasons." He adds emphasis and leans closer to me with every point he makes. "You aren't a hobbit, you aren't particularly handsome, you respect Frodo's hardships and would do anything to protect him, and you're relatively harmless." His voice hardens then, and I wince. "Or I thought you were harmless. You can't fight and you haven't done anything remarkable in your life; how is this then done?"

"I haven't the faintest idea," I mutter. "Gandalf, I swear, I'm not trying to ruin anything. And thus far I haven't exactly taken you guys monumentally off the trail. I'll probably do nothing huge."

The wizard shakes his head. "I rather doubt that. You'll only get yourself hurt worse . . . and those you strive to keep well."

One of my eyebrows arches. "Gandalf, you really don't remember this place?"

Gandalf shakes his head again, then pauses. "But you know how to get out."

It takes me a moment to conquer my ego; I nod to the exit when I'm finished. "It's that way."

Gandalf stands and approaches the archway I've pointed out, then nods. "Well, at least the air doesn't smell so foul down here."

"When in doubt, Frodo, follow your nose," I mutter. I don't remember that line very well, but I'm pretty sure it had something to do with that general concept. Frodo doesn't react, fortunately for me. I stay behind as the rest of the Fellowship slips into the tunnel, but as I try to stand a sharp pain stabs through my spine. I don't want to call out for fear I'll alert the orcs down below . . . so I propel myself across the steep, uneven ground with my feet towards the stairs, half of me lying down.

When I reach the archway, Frodo scrambles back to find me.

"Come on," Frodo says gently, and then notices my position. He reaches forward to lift me off the ground, but I shake my head.

"It's not use," I admit. "Don't worry; catch up with the others. I'll heal soon, and I can be along."

Frodo's brow furrows, and he slips his hand over my neck, feeling the skin over my spine. I shudder, arching away vainly: the skin is extremely sensitive, and I'm glad he isn't pinching or poking at all.

He peers down at it, removing my cloak and lowering my back collar a little bit. He gently shuffles my bush of curls out of the way and inhales sharply. "Minah, you aren't going anywhere; the bruise looks awful."

"It's just bruised?!" I abruptly stand, ignoring the pain. Part of my urgency is to force myself not to revel in his touch. "Well, then, what am I still doing here?" The ache is screaming now, but I don't care. I charge down the stairs. He protests a little, following me quickly down. He's nimble, but I'm stumbling forward in blind agony: I'm faster.

Finally I break down on one knee, breathing hard. My lungs are on fire, not from the stairs so much as the energy it takes to move forward through this pain. Frodo reaches down and wraps my arm around his shoulders. I glance up at him and realize his expression is laced with worry.

I glance up even more and see Legolas racing out of the wooden doors to the burial chamber I recognize from the film. Legolas swiftly scoops me off the ground, and I squawk in spite of myself. I cut myself off and listen: I hear the echoes of drums, and I stare down at Frodo, who races along beside the elf.

"Legolas, put me down," I insist. "I'm going to need my strength for this."

Legolas shakes his head. "We're hiding you."

As soon as Frodo is through the doors, Boromir and Aragorn slam them behind him. Despite my protests, Legolas finds a little niche in the wall and stuffs me inside. With my spine in its condition and my legs squished and packed into the cavity, I can't move.

"Keep quiet," Legolas says gravely before backing out. I keep an eye on Frodo and struggle to break free. I need a sword, at least to defend myself; maybe I can even do some good and get some orcs out of the way.

Frodo draws Sting, and I give a little lurch; although the other hobbits are protectively clustered in front of him, I know he's in danger. Lots of danger. I hardly hear the banging at the door as I watch Frodo: he's going to be stabbed by a cave troll. The image of his lurch in my mind is prevalent; all that pain. I can help with that, at least.

Once Frodo charges with the other hobbits into the battle, I'm snapped out of my paralysis and I struggle against my confinement. I battle furiously with my pain, with the squeeze of the rock all around me. The battle carries on, and I watch Sam smacking orcs with his frying pan. I frantically search for Frodo; he's up on the ledge with Pippin and Merry, but instead of simply being separated from them, he watches Pippin be slapped down to the ground by the cave troll. He lunges for the creature before it can step on the hobbit below, and the cave troll bellows at him when he punctures its arm.

With one last, desperate shove of energy, I manage to break free of the stone around me. The cave troll drags Frodo to the ground, then lets go when Frodo stabs at it again. Its roar fills the cavern; Aragorn leaps up to help Frodo, only to be swatted away. I scramble for a weapon and find a small sword at the fingertips of a dead orc. I leap over the body, shuddering; I haven't exactly been exposed to death in my life—outside of the occasional funeral visit—and I'm glad Frodo doesn't deal with very much later on. I grab at my stomach, then arch my back, at the sudden influx of nausea and overall pain. I shake it away, leaping for the cave troll when he lifts the spear to impale Frodo. I cry out, attempting to get its attention, and latch the blade in its calf. It howls loudly, and rocks crumble from the ceiling. Frodo stares at me, horrified, as the cave troll turns.

My heart thuds as I eye Frodo carefully. I wish I could tell him it's on his behalf, that he doesn't want me to leave him alone . . . I hope. Perhaps he does wish I would just stay out of everything.

"Hey! Leave him be!" I snap defiantly at the cave troll. It immediately swings its spear around at me, and as I jump back I realize that Frodo's wearing armor: I've got nothing.

But I can't undo what I've done, so I trust I can either make this work or die here. Perhaps Gandalf can send me home and heal me, but I doubt it. I don't experience much trauma in my own mind, especially if I'm the victim of whatever goes on. I can't assess danger very well from my own head.

The cave troll charges after me, backing me over corpses and around corners. Frodo rushes for the troll first, but I cry out for him to stay away. Boromir follows—although not before I'm backed into solid wall. I clutch my arms over my torso, unsure where the creature will strike. I watch the spear tip carefully as the cave troll lunges, and I move to dodge it. I don't make it before the huge weapon impales my arm, latching it to the stone behind it. An agonized scream barrels from my lungs, and I know no more than the blinding, sudden crush in my bone before I've blacked out.

~0~

I don't imagine I've been knocked out for long. I hear Gandalf to start.

"Frodo, I'm certain she's still alive." But he sounds worried. "She hasn't been punctured anywhere fatal."

My eyes flicker open. Today has not been my day for, well, living without getting seriously injured. I moan, glancing down at my arm. The spear is gone, as is my sleeve, a soaked strip of black fabric discarded to the side. Frodo's sleeve is ripped off as well, now wrapped around my upper arm. Blood soaks my skin.

I glance up, shuddering, at Frodo.

Aragorn tells the Fellowship that we need to keep moving. Gandalf reaches forward abruptly, taking my belt from the pouch at his side and cinching my wrist to Frodo's . . . very tightly.

"Don't let her out of your sight," Gandalf mutters, shooting me a dark look. "She's gotten hurt enough, and I'm sure she won't risk you." He sounds more like he's addressing me, accusing me of trying to step in on Frodo's behalf. But now I can't get into danger without troubling Frodo.

At least he can't get into danger without alerting me either.

Gandalf yanks me to my feet, and I gasp with the pain flickering down my back, the shock of being in battle for the first time, the death and pain surrounding me, the tight grip of fabric on my arm. I swallow uncertainly; my throat sears with an itch at this new experience.

Frodo leads me as gently as he can out of the burial room, but we have to run. As we do, I manage to pop in a word. My fingers entwine initially with his; it's the only comfortable way to run, otherwise we yank on each other's wrists.

"You didn't have to," I interject as we race through the great columns of Moria's once grand halls.

He stares up at me, confused. "What are you talking about?"

"The sleeve," I clarify. "Thank you."

In the dim light of Gandalf's staff I see a mild blush rise to his face. "It's nothing." But the arm now almost sleeveless tenses a little, and I wonder at that.

Before I can say anything more, though, I hear a shriek behind me, and realize goblins are coming. I drag Frodo faster along, doing my best not to scream at the fire in my back. My arm isn't so bad . . . but I know it could be if I focused on it, so I rip my attention from it and towards Frodo, who scrambles by my side twice as fast as the other hobbits. I attribute that to our combined desire to keep moving, and soon we get ahead of Gandalf.

The goblins clamber down from the ceiling like spiders, and they sound about the same as well. There's a myriad of the disgusting creatures; they hiss and spit loudly, baring their teeth and their weapons. As the Fellowship huddles, Frodo and I attempt to block each other from the goblins. A little debate ensues in hissed whispers between us.

"Frodo, I'm here to protect you."

He fires back, "You're injured, and you're my servant; you rather persist to do as I say, and I ask that you stay behind me."

He ends up winning, but as the does the goblins scatter. I grab Frodo's shoulder and begin backing off from the still group; Gandalf looks resigned, but admittedly I don't think that's a good reason to endanger the rest of the Fellowship.

Frodo glances up at me. "What's going on?"

I hiss to him, "Run. Gandalf will tell the others to do the same in a minute. There's a fire demon behind us, and he'll—he—," I pause. "This is the price for coming, I suppose," I mutter to myself.

Gandalf's shout sounds from far behind us. "Run!" Frodo and I take our pace faster, and I yank him into the cavern where the stairs will be. I find the little ledge where Boromir would have stumbled, and I turn the corner.

Soon, though, Frodo drags me to a halt.

"Minah, we should wait for the others," he says urgently.

I nod submissively; he's right about me being his servant, even if the decisions he makes are ones I don't think best for him. I halt on the stairs, only to see Boromir dash out and nearly fall off the stairs. His torch scatters down into the grand cavern of the staircase.

I glance up; I can see the bridge of Kazad-Dum, and the little breach in the stairs that we all will eventually leap over. It's a little farther down than I realized, but as soon as the Fellowship is almost upon us I race forward with Frodo anyway.

Once we reach the gap in the stairs, I realize it's probably eight or nine feet across: any hope I had in getting Frodo over it first is gone. Legolas squeezes past me and easily leaps to the other side. He beckons for me to come, but I suppose Gandalf takes that as his cue and goes first. Boromir follows, then three of the hobbits, then Gimli.

I snap the belt around my wrist. "Aragorn, get him across now!"

Aragorn grabs Frodo by the torso and moves to launch him over, but the staircase shudders, and the steps in front of us begin to crumble. Aragorn stumbles in place, and Frodo collapses from his grip. A streak of adrenaline swells within me as Frodo starts to fall, but I reach down and grab his arm before he can fall completely. Then more stairs crumble, and I cry out as that weightless feeling of a fall overcomes me. My hand catches just barely on the stone, and as the staircase sways Aragorn grabs my hand and starts to lift me back up.

The chunk of staircase leans forward, and I scramble to throw Frodo over onto the edge before collision. I tuck my legs up after Frodo's on the stairs, and the clashing stone narrowly avoids crushing me. Frodo and Aragorn leap over, and I fall onto the stairs, my lungs heaving. Boromir drags me to my feet, and we keep running. He doesn't let go of my hand.

Frodo manages to steal me from Boromir, for which I'm very grateful. Finally we reach the bridge, and I turn back to Gandalf. He glares hard at me . . . and I wonder if he can see that I'm plotting how to save him. He grabs Boromir and whispers something to him. The warrior's gaze flicks to me, and he nods in affirmation to Gandalf.

My eyebrows narrow. I don't need someone to look after me, especially not one that would hurt my charge for the Ring's sake.

I let Frodo go first across the bridge; I don't know how he moves so fast across it. It's such a skinny little thing. It takes all the strength I have not to buckle against the bridge and carefully slide myself across it, and I nearly slip more than once. Tingles travel up my feet, and my heart beats so much faster while I run. I slam into the wall on the opposite side for support, and Boromir drags me up the stairs.

But then I hear a rumble behind me. Gandalf turns to face the demon.

"You cannot pass!"

Frodo's cry stabs my heart; I know it'll only get worse if I let Gandalf fall. "Gandalf!"

I race down to the bridge as Gandalf fights the demon. Frodo calls out after me, ordering me to turn back. I hesitantly step away from the bridge's edge, and Boromir races to my side. He grabs my upper arm and yanks me back. Frodo joins us both, but as they might have had a little struggle all eyes lock on Gandalf. He shouts that famous phrase—"You shall not pass!"—and slams his staff into the bridge. Boromir's grip on me loosens, and Frodo barrels subconsciously into my side. My back protests, and I nearly buckle.

Then Balrog steps onto the bridge, and I yank against Boromir's hold desperately. A short whimper escapes my throat, but the bridge doesn't crumble. Gandalf steps back, and the demon takes another step forward. I reach forward the moment I'm able and grab Gandalf's hand . . . and then the whole bridge gives a great groan and crashes to pieces. The demon, nearly to the other side of the bridge, roars as he falls. His whip arcs down quickly, slapping across my back. I have no time to scream as the momentum shoves me and Gandalf both down.

"No!" Frodo's protest is abrupt, and I think I've fallen out of hearing range. Then I realize Gandalf is suspended in the air below me, and my body hangs off of a small ledge some distance from the top.

I try to yank back on the wizard, frantically bring him back up, but he glares up at me.

"Come on, Gandalf," I mutter. "We can get to the top."

Gandalf shakes his head sternly.

"I would have fallen," he hisses. "Why would I have fallen? What purpose would that have served?" He reaches up and yanks on my shirt collar; my bruised spine protests again. "Don't think about taking me back. There was a purpose."

I think about Frodo: the pain, the nightmares, the agony of loss. Tears prick at my eyes, and I swallow. "You become a white wizard," I admit. "But can't I save you? Isn't there some other way? At least tell Frodo it won't be forever."

Frodo calls out to us both, explains that he's getting help. I glance back up at him to tell him it should be fine, but Gandalf yanks my head down before I can say a word.

"You will mention nothing of the sort to him," he insists. Then he sighs. "Minah, do what you feel is right. But that is the warning I've given you and will continue to give you: the more you interfere the more of Frodo you risk."

I swallow; it's as though I can't help it. I nod slowly.

"I brought you here to comfort him. If you can't do else, do that. I admit I've been hard on you, but it is for your benefit; you have the potential to keep him safe. That is why I chose you." Gandalf stares up past me. "At least you haven't the strength to hold me here."

My eyes seal shut; he's right. I can feel my back giving out. His fingers slip in my grasp.

I glance up and realize Frodo is watching us both. I try to appear composed, but I bite my lip; I can't abide the thought of pain written all over Frodo's face when Gandalf falls.

Gandalf's eyes harden again. "Get out of here, you fools," he whispers, but his voice cuts the air like a shout. He wrenches his hand out of mine, and I slack, defeated, on my slab of rock.

"Gandalf! No!"

 **Reviews are appreciated! Thanks so much for all your support thus far!**


	11. The Galadriel Is Ignoring Me

**Me And Not You 1001: Actually that's rather flattering to me; I've never heard my mom or sister (both perfectionists and good judges of stories) read a story but they get frustrated with the protagonist. XD And if Minah didn't have a flaw, she might be a Mary Sue. O.o Frodo is her object of protection. "I follow Frodo into the forest . . . and a slap lands on my face. My eyes widen, and I glance around. 'Minah, what the heck is wrong with you?! Just let it be!' Had I not been involved with magic before, I might dismiss the voice and the residual sting in my cheek, but I just glance up at the sky. 'You know what,' I mutter. 'You're right.' I turn my gaze to the ground again. 'I just want to help him.' The voice came again, a little softer but still somewhat agitated. 'The story solves itself. Just relax and let the story flow.' Frodo turns to me. 'Minah? Who are you talking to?' I shake my head. 'I don't actually know. But I get the feeling she knows just about you as I do.'"**

 **Jayla Fire Gal: XD Yup. :D That is this story in a nutshell.**

 **Diem Kieu: O.o Is AU; who knows when the end is? XD I should know. Sort of. Ish. O.o I changed it just a week or two ago; maybe I don't know where the end is. :O!  
Is just bruised. :) The shock was the big issue. "Tis merely a flesh wound." Thanks! :D I look forward to those next chapters! DFTYA!**

I didn't anticipate the wrench in my chest enough; it rips right through my bruised back and tears my heart in half. I know this voice now, understand the little hobbit behind it and everything he stands for; and unlike what I've heard before, I pick up a crack and perhaps a bit of a sob in his words. I stare after Gandalf's fading form, only comforted to think of Frodo's relief when this is all over and he sees Gandalf again.

Then I give a lurch; things have changed a little without my intervention.

What if I just killed Gandalf?

Shock possesses me as a strong hand reaches down to grab the back of my collar. I'm lifted into Aragorn's arms, and he shoves me out of the cavern, up the stairs. I stumble over my own feet and glance back; we're the first ones out. Everyone else follows, and I can already see them breaking down in place. Gimli's eyes smoulder with anger, and Legolas only maintains a little of his composure. Soon he'll internalize it; elves aren't exposed to death, and I remember hearing something about Legolas's expression coming out of Moria was meant to reflect his lack of experience with such things.

I don't know how to handle all of this pain, working up within the entire Fellowship. I slip into the background, up against a large rock; tears trickle down my face as I listen to the vocal and silent pain surrounding me, the world I'm not meant to be any part of. My back aches as I lean against the rock; now that I'm not surged with energy, pushing to keep Frodo happy and Gandalf alive, I can feel every bang. Thankfully it feels better than it did, although it throbs miserably. I'll probably have it checked when I get home; it doesn't feel like there will be any lasting damage.

My eyes widen—I can't go home if Gandalf dies.

It's such a game of chance, and I realize that's all their world is: you lose someone or you don't. You risk your all for something that perhaps won't matter to you in a few years. And in Frodo's case, for something that eventually he won't care about at all, that will be nothing more than a Phyrric victory.

The thought of him leaving again stabs me. I glance up, only to see him stumbling, with an ache, past my rock. He glances up forlornly; he looks so pale, so fallen. I inhale sharply at the sight, then open up my cloak to him.

Frodo slowly staggers towards me, glancing down at the black fabric. He crumples against my side, shivering a little. I squeeze him close, and out of an impulse I bury a soft kiss in his curls.

"You knew."

He sounds surprisingly collected, but there's a lingering pain in him I don't care to analyze. It would hurt too much.

"I did," I admit.

He shakes his head, burrowing against me. His head rests in the crook of my neck; his curls tickle my jaw. "He made you let go. Why didn't he save himself?" Guileless, I realize; that's the word that describes this Frodo. He's not so much naïve as guileless, although perhaps most people see those as the same thing.

I sigh and take my arm back, and he reaches forward to take my hand in both of his. He brushes it against his cheek—tears soak my skin.

"Because it's meant to be this way," I say gently, but my voice cracks. He stares up at me; his huge blue eyes are menacing in a hurt manner, only dangerous for the agony they contain in and of themselves, as though he would push me away. I embrace him, and he grips my arm with both hands. "You won't understand for a long time yet," I say, swaying slightly. "But someday the pain you feel now will be swept away."

Frodo doesn't move. "That doesn't change the fact that Gandalf is gone."

"It may," I hint in a small whisper. He doesn't look up; I don't think he believes me.

The walk to Lorien goes exactly as expected; I linger behind Frodo, two paces behind, no farther, no closer. I'm in pain most of the time, and linger behind the Fellowship, but close to the forest I begin to relax, perhaps in anticipation of rest.

The elves with their arrows completely ignore me . . . but Boromir doesn't, particularly when we are led to Haldir's home.

I expect Boromir to turn to Frodo and talk to him about his burden; he does no such thing. I've seated myself a small distance from Frodo, giving him some space, but he sidles up close to me. He doesn't sleep until I coax him into it; he's not as tense here as he was in the film, and I wonder if I could help him with the Ring.

Boromir regards us both very closely. "You care for him as though he were one of your own."

Frodo shuffles by my side, and I see his eyes flicker for only a second. Luckily Boromir isn't watching him.

"Thank you," I say, queasy, "but I have no children of my own."

Boromir hesitates. "No lovers at home? No husband of any sort, and no family?"

I shake my head. My gaze flickers away from his daunting eyes; he's a little more proud and a little more suspicious than the character I'm used to, his eyes slightly narrower. "Not a one," I say. I'm treading carefully; I don't know why he wants to know. I could lie, but I have no wish to do any such thing.

He slides slowly across the ground towards me. I swallow and lean closer to Frodo, who shifts a little.

"Is that of your own choice or have no men noticed your . . ." He pauses, and his voice drops to a whisper. I don't know what's wrong with him; I'm not _that_ attractive. To each his own, I assert to myself nervously. "Your innate softness," he finishes, studying my face. I realize a warrior's life simply must be that difficult, and I'm probably the only woman he's seen in months.

Frodo jolts by my side and allows his eyes to open. He rolls in place, eyeing Boromir. I get the feeling he attempts to look dizzy, but a definite glare is showing through. Boromir nods to him, then glances back at me as he moves away once again.

"I'm not to trust him," Frodo says distantly. He turns his gaze to me. "Please be careful."

I open my mouth to affirm I will—and then I notice just how sincere he sounds. It plays with my heart a little, and my pulse flutters accordingly when my gaze locks on his.

I nod. "Thank you. For being concerned."

Frodo reaches around for my hand, and his thumb rubs softly across my knuckles. "Gandalf told me he would send you home. But now I think I need to look after you."

It hits me again: but Gandalf might still be alive.

"Well, I'm looking after you too," I say. I hold him close to me and feel his heartbeat against my side. "I guess loss bonds everyone closer . . . including those gone."

Frodo says nothing. Again, things carry on as predicted all the way through Lothlorien. Galadriel does not speak to me when we arrive, as though she doesn't even know I'm there. She addresses every other member of the Fellowship, and I feel a little ignored: does that mean I can do anything I feel necessary to Frodo? For him?

Later that night I don't rest. I sit up close to Frodo, but I don't say anything for a while. Finally he turns to me.

"You know what's happened," he says quietly.

I nod.

"You know what she's said to me."

I shift uncomfortably. "Things haven't been going entirely as I've guessed, but mostly they're the same. I might know what's she's told you . . . told you you bring a great evil here, asked you what secrets you hide." I lift an eyebrow at his paling face. "You've seen her eyes before you ever laid your own on her."

Frodo flicks his gaze to the ground. "Anything else?"

I shake my head. "No; did she say anything?" Then I pause. Perhaps she told him something he doesn't want to mention. "I'm sorry."

He glances up. "Just that, for a Ringbearer, I am fortunate to have two parts."

My brow furrows solidly. "Two parts?!"

He nods. His expression grows confused as he speaks. "A . . . I cannot recall what she said . . . it was an odd sort of word, not from any language I can consider."

I think about it for a minute. A human, a counterpart? I try to think, but I'm sure I don't know.

"She said it is a word spoken little in this land, by a foreigner from another world." He pauses. "What have you said?" He leans forward, dissecting me with his gaze again. I back into the roots of the tree. "What are you?"

I hold up my hands in surrender. "I have no idea." Then I pause; it's a long shot. A ridiculously long shot; I think mentioning it will twist his memory if it sounds similar to whatever Galadriel told him, so I decide to mutter it instead, contemplating it. Perhaps she'll confirm it to me if I say it out loud. "Baymax."

Frodo doesn't move; he didn't hear me, but I don't repeat it. I search the woods for Galadriel, but she is nowhere to be found. She says nothing, and I assume my guess is incorrect. Whatever second part Frodo has to him, it probably isn't me.

Later that night, Frodo is sound asleep . . . ostensibly. I know he's lingering on the edge of awakening. I watch Lady Galadriel sweep by. She doesn't look up at me, and I again stiffen with frustration. It's as though I don't exist; my one chance to be on Middle Earth, and I don't exist.

Frodo jolts upright and stares up at Galadriel. He stands, entranced, then shakes out of it and turns back to me.

"Minah—,"

I hold up a hand. "Go, Frodo." He glances uncertainly at the Enchantress, and I squeeze his hand. He wildly shifts his gaze back to me. "It's all right; you must do this on your own." I kneel up and lean towards his ear. "Remember, even if you are on your own, that you are strong . . . and that, no matter what, your friends still care about you, that with them sacrificing on your behalf, you can defy any evil or power in this world."

He has a skeptical expression when I pull away, but he hardens it with conviction and nods. He turns after Galadriel, reluctantly releasing my hand.

"I'm with you wherever you go," I whisper after him. He turns back and smiles; I'm going to miss that smile, that warm, easy smile that softens the corners of his lips so initially. He loses that light about him as he steps after Galadriel, now solemn as though caught in a dream.

Actually I might not have to miss that smile. Gandalf might let me stay . . . or perhaps I will die before I let that smile out of my sight again. I feel guilty about letting Gandalf go—I didn't tell him I don't know everything. I never expected to be confused in a Lord of the Rings story, on a path I've memorized for novel and film canon.

When Frodo returns he appears a little shaken.

"She says you're alone," I admit, but then I sit up. "Frodo, I must tell you something."

He kneels down by my side, but he looks exhausted. I pat his shoulder and settle him down, but he fidgets.

"What is it?" he asks curiously.

I shake my head. "Get some sleep first; I'll tell you in the morning."

A teasing glint lights his eyes, and my heart jolts with jocose worry. "I doubt I'll be able to get any sleep at this rate; tell me what it is and perhaps I'll let you sleep as well."

My eyes sink shut, and my head bows. He chuckles lightly. "All right. But I don't want this to trouble you." At this he grows solemn, cocking his head. I inhale and exhale slowly. "Frodo, I think I'm unaffected by the Ring."

His gaze grows a little frightened, and I hold up my hands. "Hear me out. Gandalf says its power has been growing, but I haven't felt effects from it at all."

"Have you ever even seen it?" Frodo challenges suddenly. But he doesn't sound possessive . . . he sounds protective.

I crouch, stepping forward slowly. "Yes," I admit, glancing down at the ground. "Not up close, but I have." I reach forward, then lower my hand to the ground. "I know what it is, and I know what it's capable of. That's why I want to help; I want to be a part of you, help you carry this burden. If you will let me, if you command me."

Frodo's stare grows intuitive, and he studies me from head to foot without saying a word. He reaches into his breast pocket and removes the Ring; the chain is snapped. Then I remember: he threw himself back with a lot of momentum after that vision. I reach forward, but he folds his fingers over it.

"Frodo, I can fix the chain," I clarify quickly.

He pauses, staring down at the little golden Ring in his palm. It's beautiful, very much so . . . but I focus on him, on his perfectly round, beautiful irises. I blink—I've refused to let myself think of them as something to indulge in up to this point. He reaches for my hand and unfolds my fingers, letting the Ring settle in my palm. I shudder at the sheer power of it. It sounds melodramatic in my head, but truly it is an intimidating little thing.

I swallow when Frodo releases my hand, and I begin to tremble. What if I can't carry it? What if my attempt to help Frodo is ultimately my downfall, as well as the downfall of Middle Earth? What if I take it far away, become like Gollum?

After a minute of this, I force myself to calm and focus. I flick my gaze up to Frodo's again, regaining my focal point. I grab one of the unbroken chain links and set the Ring on my knee while I twist the link open, then put the Ring back on the chain. I shudder again as I pick it up. This destroyed Frodo Baggins—will destroy, I realize. It hasn't killed him yet, hasn't taken hold of his mind like a parasite and turned him from the hero he is within his heart into a greedy hobbit. Even if it only was for a few moments that he showed his desire for the Ring, it still haunts me and makes me sick.

I care about him too much.

The links are small, and the tip of my tongue sticks out stiffly from between the corner of my lips as I slide the undone link into the next whole one and clamp it shut. My gaze shifts to Frodo.

"May I?"

Frodo nods, and I cautiously slip the Ring's chain over my head. He opens his mouth as though in protest when the Ring lands solidly against my chest; it's heavier than I realized. I wince as I lift my hair out of the way; knowing what it is, staring down at the little band of gold by my heart, makes it all the harder.

Frodo slips over by my side. "Minah, are you all right?"

My head lolls back and forth uncertainly, but I finally decide to tell him it's fine.

"I'm sure I'll get used to it."

His brow creases. "Get used to what?"

"The weight." I pick it up; it's so thin, it feels like I could snap it if I grip it hard enough. The weight transfers to my fingers. Perhaps because I understand enough about the Ring it can't conquer me as easily.

That's probably just wishful thinking. It'll likely have the same effect on me as everyone else.

"What weight?" Frodo reaches forward, balancing it in his palm close to my collarbone. My heart sinks; does he not understand? "Minah, it's very light." He glances up at me. "Maybe it's not an optimal choice to let you carry it."

I shrug. "Frodo, I have no intention of holding it the whole time." I pause, sidling up to him. It's as though I have a magnet in my gut: he slacks against my side as easily as if it's beyond his control not to. "I just want to show you that perhaps Galadriel is wrong; that, even as a Ringbearer, you aren't alone." I squeeze his shoulders. "You're never alone. I'm always going to be here."

Frodo glances up at the Ring and rests his head on my shoulder. His voice sounds remarkably stony, and if I jolt with the belief that perhaps he feels bitter. "Are you happier to have Gandalf gone? Or taking advantage of that?"

My jaw drops. "Heavens, no!" I tilt his chin up until his eyes meet mine . . . and then I realize just how smooth and flawless his jawline is. After a moment of stroking my fingertips along his jaw, my hand softly cups his face; his throat barely touches my smallest finger when he swallows. His eyelids flicker apprehensively over sapphire irises, shining pupils, at my touch. "Frodo, I fell trying to rescue him because I knew how much it would hurt you. And I miss him, I can't deny that; and someday I must go home."

Frodo shifts against me. "I suppose if you wished to go home you would need Gandalf for that." He still doesn't sound settled.

"Frodo, it'll be all right, I swear!" I manage. I leave his side; the Ring is boring into my neck, and I rub the chain with a slight grunt. I pat his cloak, distracted. "Come lie down; it's all right."

He still eyes me skeptically. He looks betrayed, almost.

"Please," I say; I have nothing else to ask him, really.

Finally he settles amongst his cloak. I remove my own and drape it over his body.

"Do you prefer your feet uncovered?"

Frodo shrugs; finally he's acting like his mildly condescending self again. "Not particularly. If I get too warm I'll let you know."

I nod to him, backing away. "Good night."

Soon he's asleep. His lungs swell and settle deeply; I almost feel like touching them, feeling that flow of oxygen that keeps such vital blood running him . . . something I cannot do for him.

 **Reviews are always appreciated! Thanks so much for the support, and to those that have any desire to review, I'd love to hear from you! :D**


	12. It's Like Family, But More

**Diem Kieu: Weeell, sort of. Yes, she does: she just chooses to ignore her because she finds Minah not particularly important. Minah is a mortal who knows her destiny, or at least what she wants it to be, so Galadriel doesn't have to really say anything. XD! Juiciness . . . may or may not take a while, but it'll be here, I promise! DFTYA!**

 **Jayla Fire Gal: Not immune, but she understands the effects, and thus kind of throws them off a bit, and it's like Galadriel said: The Ringbearer is now of two parts, two different people that can bear half of the same burden to protect each other. Thanks! :D I appreciate that.**

 **Me And Not You 1001: XD! Thanks! I was hoping that would do something good. X) Sweeeet; well, I hope this does good for you too! Thanks so much for the review!**

 **Hagniniss: Thank you! Hope you enjoy the rest of the story, and thanks for reaching out. :D**

 **Legolasle2170: Hey, thanks! I love puns. XD**

 **EtheGoldenSnitch: Thank you. :) Wow, that's awesome! :D I'm glad you appreciate Frodo; guess that's what this story is to reach for, huh? ;) Yes, seeing Frodo pained . . . yes, I totally get where you're coming from. That's why I brought him Minah; I hope he feels better. :P Lots of love back!  
XD So true, though! Frodo has a wonderful face. X) Thanks; well, here it be!**

 **Ms. Morgan Ashley: Welcome, and thanks! :D That just gave me the warm fuzzies. I hope, on behalf of your appreciation of Frodo-comfort, that it ends well. :) I appreciate the review!**

 **Now on to the story. :D**

When I awaken in the morning I'm sweating, but only on the one side, in some irregular shape. I groan and stretch, only to find Frodo cuddled up against my side. His arms are wrapped solidly around my waist, his head resting against my shoulder. My eyes widen and I blink—I wonder what his thought patterns were like last night.

I glance over at where he'd been sleeping: the cloaks are tousled, mine thrown aside violently. I pause and stare down at him. Poor thing.

I wrap my arms around his small shoulders and softly sift my fingers through his curls. They bounce and jolt at my touch, rounding my skin slowly until the pressure is too much, and they recoil with a bang to join the other strands of dark hair suddenly.

It's about then that I think I love him, as perhaps a mother or a sister, I rationalize hastily. Yes, a mother or sister.

For a long, peaceful moment, Frodo is asleep by my side, in my arms tucked in like an egg. I suddenly have this delusion of grandeur, like I'm some dragon caring predatorily for her beloved little one.

But part of me is revolted at thinking of him that way.

I stare down at his sleeve tied around my upper arm. The blood is likely stopped, but I don't feel like untying it just yet.

The dawn glows in the mists of Lothlorien as time progresses lazily; the elves come and awaken the Fellowship. When one elf approaches me and Frodo, I hold up a hand, and the elf politely bows and backs away. I reach down, gently stroking Frodo's hair back.

"Frodo, it's time," I murmur. He tosses in place, and his eyes ease slowly open. They're a little bloodshot from awakening; he yawns, and I somehow can't help but smile at that. I peck the top of his head. "What were you dreaming about?"

He stares up at me, a little confused, then shrugs and presses on. I didn't know if he actually had a dream, but I can guess what I wish.

"I dreamed of a white ship on the horizon," he says softly, and I stiffen initially. My eyes squeeze shut. He can't leave me—he can't. "And . . . and my friends stood beside me. I heard Gandalf telling me I had to make the best of my decision, wrong as it was."

My eyes bulge.

"Wrong?" I mutter. "Were you still on the harbor when the ship left?"

"Of course," Frodo says; I realize I've probably made that repetitive for him. "I watched it go. But I didn't feel like I'd done anything wrong; I felt peace."

Well, he does now. What about later, when he suffers from all that he does without the desire to be anything more than out of this world?

His story strikes me as so tragic, but there's nothing I can do about it.

Before I can ask anything more or he can say anything more, Legolas gently kneels down beside us and tells us that we are to line up as the Fellowship before Lady Galadriel. Boromir doesn't arrive to accept his gift—he goes to the canoes, as though he's afraid of this place. I remember he fears the Lady, doesn't quite trust what she has to say.

I stand behind Frodo, some distance from the rest of the Fellowship, as Galadriel bestows their gifts upon them, although I do receive a Lorien cloak and place the black one in my satchel. I assume after that the Elves will just ignore me, but when she approaches Frodo she waves him aside for only a moment.

"Minah Bird."

My eyes widen; Gandalf never even addressed me by my full name.

"You're presence here is not by chance." The tall, elegant sorceress stands high above me, crystal eyes carving into my skin. She's like Frodo, only a little less . . . good-natured, I suppose, and a little less hopeful, more wise. She beckons to the side, and her husband Celeborn brings forward a beautiful, sturdy walking stick of oil-black wood. On the side is carved a word in Elvish, chased in solid white along the dark stick.

"Iorhael," she translates as Celeborn gives her the stick. She offers it to me. "Let this be your objective and your weapon, the one that goes before you in your pursuits in this world."

I notice there's a little silver niche some seven inches below the rounded, smooth tip of the stick, right in the curve of my fingers. I reach up, feeling it, and it shifts as though it can come loose. Slanting the stick down, I grip the shiny wood and yank back; the handle gives at the niche, and an elegant, white long-sword hisses from the stick. I reverently—but surprisedly—resheath it, staring back up at Galadriel.

"Thank you, my lady," I whisper.

Galadriel bows courteously, then turns to Frodo. I watch, awed, as she hands him the glass vial and kisses the top of his head. I can feel the light battling the Ring . . . and realize it's not around his neck right now. It's around mine.

I swallow and reach up to finger it, remembering all this weight. Then I consider that I'd be worried if Frodo started doing the same, so I abruptly release it.

Galadriel dismisses us with her blessing, and as we enter the canoes I realize there's only meant to be room for nine. Boromir moves to offer me a place on his ship, but before he can ask I offer to be a seat for Frodo. He nonchalantly agrees, not paying attention to me at all.

I only hope it doesn't bother him.

Sam sits in front of us, Aragorn at our back. Frodo is in a bit of a solemn mood for the first little while, sitting rigid on my lap as the beautiful country flows by. I don't have this shade of green in Idaho; I had to go all the way to Germany to find it. I stare at the water, crystal clear so I can see the huge lumps of rock on the floor. The sky is lightly dotted with clouds, and cliffs reign the land with a mighty strength.

As the day wears on, Frodo grows shifty. I ache from being perfectly still, but I doubt he's noticed anyway. If I move he might protest, though, so I don't dare. Finally, though, he burrows solidly against me. His breath quickens just a little for only a moment, and then he exhales powerfully.

"Frodo, are you all right?" I ask softly. I adjust myself on the little wooden plank and place a hand against his back; it almost stretches across both shoulder blades.

He shakes his head. "I feel like I've lost the Ring . . . apprehensive as though it's left my keeping." He glances up at me. "But I haven't. Didn't I have it this morning?"

I hesitate. "I can see the Ring; it's fine."

He doesn't look down at his neck; he slacks again against my torso. I consider my predicament: I'm carrying the One Ring, holding Frodo Baggins, and being rowed down a river by Aragorn, the heir to the throne of Gondor, in the same ship as Samwise the Brave.

And I can't help but feel sick. Normally I would have jumped on this opportunity, loved the chance for an adventure. I love reading, and I love books and movies with emotional intensity . . . but I never wanted to be an apex of decision for characters. I love characters, and I always wanted to love and care for them like I felt they deserved.

But this is all a mess.

Perhaps someday I can save Frodo, keep him from harm like I'm meant to.

Later that night Frodo talks to Sam, explains that he can't be helped. I can't take it right then, not after Boromir's argument with Aragorn, not after all that's happened today. I feel overwhelmed: I have responsibilities I never understood, and I can't be enough to do them, or so I believe. I duck behind a nearby stone, waiting until everyone falls asleep. Tears trickle down my face as I lie on the stone—even in another world where I was chosen for a simple task I can't do it right.

As I cry silently I shudder. I think about that hobbit in my arms this morning, about what he will become because of this Ring around his neck—

Not his neck. Mine.

I finger it again, then slap myself off. Why am I even touching it?! It makes no sense; I'm not even tempted to keep it.

It's about this time that I realize what I want for Frodo. I don't need him to want something: I need him to be the hero. It broke my heart watching that the first time, when he turned around and refused to finish his quest after all he'd plowed through. Sure, the Ring melted in the end and Sauron fell—with the surviving Fellowship giving all credit to Frodo for it—but he succumbed. No one could have withstood the Ring like Frodo did, but I want to understand. I want to believe it for myself; I want the satisfaction of watching Frodo Baggins destroy the One Ring.

As I lie there I feel a presence join me. I assume it's Frodo, and I glance up.

Sam scrambles in place.

"Sorry, Miss Minah," he starts, but I throw it off.

"It's nothing, Sam." I stand abruptly and realize my tears are probably visible; but he looks frightened, and so I don't care. "What is it?"

Sam hesitates. "It's Mr. Frodo."

I nod slowly. "I'm sorry. There really isn't much you can do for him."

"No . . ." Sam swallows, shuddering. "He's cold. Ice cold. And he's trembling an awful lot." Sam shakes his head uncontrollably; he's panicking intensely, like I've never seen him. "I didn't know what else to do!"

I grab his shoulder. "You did a good thing, Sam." I give him a strong hug and step around him. Frodo is sitting up, shivering like Sam said.

"He's calmed down a little," Sam admits.

I step over and kneel down beside Frodo, but before I can ask if he's all right he grabs my cloak and wraps himself hard in it. He clambers quickly up onto my lap with his arms wrapped around me; his hands rub desperately over my back. Sam uncomfortably settles to sleep behind us, although I ignore him for the most part and hold Frodo close to me. I stroke my fingers through his hair: even that's cold. His scalp is nothing if not chilling. I lower my jaw over his head, trying frantically to warm him.

After a few minutes, he scrambles for one of my hands and shoves it over his Morgul stab with a huge lurch. I give out a slight yelp: the skin there is swollen and frosting over. It immediately numbs my skin, and after a minute or two I switch hands.

I work tirelessly in place for an hour before Frodo finally starts to warm up. I wrap his cloak around his feet and my own cloak around him; it's too cold out for me to be too useful, and soon my back is freezing.

Frodo's icy forehead rests against my neck, and he breathes powerfully as the chill begins to fade. I repeatedly murmur that it's going to be all right . . . but suddenly I don't entirely know.

Soon he's lulled to sleep, and I breathe shakily. I don't want to let him go yet for fear he'll freeze again. I lift him into my arms and step away from the campsite; I set him down carefully and form a little circle of rocks. I start a fire in a few minutes, and leave him by its side to grab larger bits of wood than I was able to reach when I had to hold him.

When I come back his eyes are open.

"Minah, I . . ." He pauses, and he blinks slowly. "I'm sorry."

My head cocks. "For what?" I say, trying to keep my voice as sympathetic as possible. I drop a few thick sticks onto the fire and allow it to spread. I sit down beside him, and he eventually draws himself up towards my lap again. I put my arm around his shoulders and squeeze him close. "It's not as if I expected anything different." Except that, knowing the story like I do, I should have anticipated he wouldn't be cold until those anniversary days, October 6th again. I wonder if it's different because it hit him in a vital spot.

"For everything." His hand slips around my waist, affectionately settling there. I stare down at his little hand, flabbergasted. "Minah, I care about you, and I don't want you to think for one minute that I don't."

I glance back down at him. "Frodo—,"

"Please, hear me out." I slam my mouth shut, not realizing he wanted to stay more. He holds up a hand, and it slacks against my collarbone. I'm a little confused; he looks uncertain as well, and his eyes refuse to meet mine. "I know I keep telling you you're just a servant, but that's for my benefit; I'm not trying to convince you, I'm trying to convince myself." He shakes his head, staring into the fire. "I don't know how to explain this, really."

My hand rubs up and down his arm as he lays his cheek against his own fingers, up by my neck. I turn, my jaw now buried in his hair.

"It's like family," I say gently.

He nods, emphatic. "You're right. It is; it's like family."

"That's how I feel for you too, Frodo," I admit, and he glances up at me. But instead of beaming as I expect, he looks . . . misunderstood. I try to cover it up, but I can't: I've admitted what of the truth I'm willing to. "I want to take care of you, and I won't leave you until something outside rips me away." My voice softens, and I cup his cheek. He settles there, and I reach forward. I take him in, feel the essence of the little hobbit so close to me. I gently brush his curls out of the way and kiss his forehead; I blush at the contact, and his face seems to grow warm too. I don't back away for a minute, though—his skin is so smooth against my lips. Perhaps I'm embarrassing him, but in front of whom I don't know. I back away, flustered by my own actions.

"Are you warmer now?" I ask.

He nods, staring up at me. I wrap him in his cloak—he refuses to take mine under the belief that I'm cold too—and watch the fire until it fades. He breathes deeply, now asleep.

 **And thus we are almost ready to close the Fellowship of the Ring. Thanks so much for following and reviewing thus far; I appreciate every one of you! Farewell until next Saturday. :)**


	13. Away from Boromir

**Me And Not You 1001: Yes! :D Thank you for that! I felt so triumphant when she broke him down like that. Sweet! I'll look forward to seeing you there. :D Are you going to publish on Wattpad?**

 **EtheGoldenSnitch: Thank you! X) That makes me feel happy. No problem at all; my favorites list should have one or two good ones. :)**

 **Diem Kieu: It comes and goes; that's why the Ringbearer has two parts. :) Oh, he'll get to that. ;)  
Ooooooohhh, yes it is. :D They're just not brave enough to see that yet . . . thanks! DFTYA!**

 **Jayla Fire Gal: No, you're right: he forgot. He keeps forgetting. He keeps thinking it's all his. XD But, of course, he's designed to think that way. Thank you so much! I don't like it as much as Blood of Malice, although (partial spoilers!) the kissing scenes are much more polished. ;) And I don't think it's as sad either . . . again, thanks so much! :D**

I want to ask Frodo why he gravitates to me so much, but when I awaken he's already at the canoes. He admits he thinks I didn't get enough sleep, but he sounds too practical to be sheepish. Pippin nudges him and winks at me, and I stare after the hobbit, confused.

"What?" I ask finally.

Pippin shrugs, nodding to Frodo, but I still don't understand. I shrug back and join Frodo in the little canoe. For a hobbit he's strong, but for a human I'm not, and with help from my Iorhael walking stick and his assistance I manage to get into the canoe. He sets my stick aside and waits patiently for me to sit before he . . . there's not a good word aside from cuddles . . . he cuddles up into my lap. I don't understand; what of me could reduce this young hobbit from a pain-bearing, psychologically destroyed, war-torn hero to one that reveres and desires touch so much?

I ask him about it as Aragorn rows behind us.

He looks a little taken aback. "If that's what I do I certainly don't think about it," he manages. One of my eyebrows shoots up; he subconsciously twitches on my lap, and he only burrows closer to me. "Suffice it to say I feel warmer and safer," he concludes.

I shrug to myself, not convinced until I realize it's the only logical construct. "That makes sense, I suppose."

Nothing more of it is said. I jolt suddenly; the Ring yanks down on my neck, and it hurts. I fidget, then glance down at it. It's a pretty, cursed, little thing.

Suddenly having Frodo on my lap is too much. I shiver and ache with the pressure of what I carry, and how Frodo hangs in the balance of the decisions I make. I don't care so much how the Ring is destroyed as long as it happens, but . . . there's too much on my shoulders. I don't trust myself to do this.

When we reach the shore and the moment Frodo is off my lap, I leap from the canoe and spring into the forest, catapulting along with my Iorhael stick. I grab a tree to catch my breath; I feel a little better away from everyone. I slack against the trunk with the sinking consideration that I could mess everything up. Did Frodo ever feel this way? My eyes snap open as my breath heaves; sweat trickles down my forehead.

After holding this Ring for only a day and a night, I suddenly admire his perserverance so much more. I swallow.

"Frodo, I never knew," I murmur. I stand suddenly; I'm antsy, I need to walk around.

The Ring isn't so much heavy as it is daunting. Everything before me, everything behind me, the one creature I strive to protect under commission and true affection.

I pace for who knows how long before I hear a rustle behind me. I grab the hilt of my longsword and yank it from my stick, wielding it ahead of me, but it's just Boromir. As the sword slides back into place, I breathe a sigh of relief and turn away.

Boromir pauses. "Where are you going?"

I only turn my head a little, so I see him in my peripheral vision. "Far away," I admit. "Please; I just need to be alone. I'm sure you understand."

There's a pause in the air as I turn away from him, but he keeps speaking. My eyes sink shut, and I continue walking away from him—I can't take this right now. "Of course," he says, probably attempting to sound soothing. "You're exposed to such a great burden, in a world you don't recognize. And Frodo is a demanding subject."

I stiffen in place, and my brow furrows as I whip back to face Boromir. "On the contrary," I nearly snap, "I care about Frodo a great deal. He is no demand."

Boromir casually steps towards me, his hands stiffening around the firewood in them. "I see." He surveys the whole of me, and I flinch under that sharp gaze. "In spite of how much you care for him, perhaps you need someone to care for you as well."

"Boromir, what do you want?"

By this time I'm stepping back into the fork of a tree. I swallow as discreetly as is humanly possible; I don't need him to know I'm afraid. He lowers his burden to the ground and begins breathing shakily as he approaches me. My grip on Iorhael slackens, and I almost drop it. It's as though I already know what he's about to do. Even so, I'm not entirely certain, but having never been in a situation like this it's hard to understand how I'll react.

He slips the glove off of his hand and reverently cups my jaw. When I try to tear away, his grip reinforces, and I shudder in place, attempting harder to yank back.

"Minah, listen to me," he insists. He stiffly wraps an arm around my waist, bringing me close to him, the firewood angled just away from me and poking into my arm. I wrench back, unable to take the closeness here. I can accept Frodo's, having eased into it believing I was nothing more than a servant, but this is much different. His voice grows husky, and I whimper a little. "I've loved you since the moment I met you."

Oh, how banal. I nearly throw up from the cliché tone coloring his voice.

"Please, sir . . ."

"Boromir, Minah—I am Boromir." He locks his hand around the back of my neck, leaning my forehead up against his. "You are very beautiful, you understand," he continues, allowing his fingers to sift through my hair. I shudder; this is a little ridiculous. "And I've seen you with the hobbits; a perfect mother figure, one that could care perhaps not only for a husband and a family, but a kingdom . . . for Gondor."

I shake my head abruptly. "You must understand; I have no experience with such things."

"But you would be willing to learn," Boromir persists. He opens his eyes. "I will take you back with me when this quest is over, but you must accept me now, for my feelings know no bounds." His voice drops to a whisper again, and he braces my jaw up. I don't understand what he's doing until he leans in and begins dotting kisses along my jawline, and I know he's only going to drop from there. I swing Iorhael around initially—nothing frightens me more than a situation like this, and the hilt of the longsword smacks against Boromir's jaw. He falls back, clutching his face, and I begin to breathe hard as I back away from the tree.

"I'm terribly sorry"—except that I'm not—"but I can't do this right now," I admit. "Not until this quest is finished."

Boromir gets up, deterred only slightly if at all. Then his eyes catch below my collarbone, and I glance down: the Ring is resting over the clip of my cloak.

His eyes narrow. "A thief?"

I shake my head. "Frodo has entrusted it to me," I say quickly. Then I remember the film and turn to run. "It's perhaps about time to return now."

Then he goes on with his speech about how he wants to protect his people. I remember what Frodo said and repeat what it was back to Boromir, but I keep walking, eventually attempting to break into a run. But by the time I do, he's already tackled me to the ground, insisting that the Ring and I belong to him. I grab the chain of the Ring initially; Iorhael fell a little ways back there, and the Ring is the only weapon I have. I yank it off of the chain, locking it around my finger.

Boromir sits above me, shocked, and I smack him in the face before leaping for my stick.

Then I hear Frodo frantically cry out behind me; somehow I don't have the energy to turn and tell him where I am. The world has grown dark and hazy, and a headache ignites behind my eyes. I grip my head with one hand and launch myself forward using my walking stick with the other. I turn back, only to see a blurry image of Frodo shifting in place. I yank the Ring from my finger, slamming against the stairs of ruins in front of me.

My breath comes out shaky, and Frodo finally locates me slacked against the stairs. He races to my side.

"Minah, what happened?" he asks worriedly. He cups my face in his hands, running his fingers all over my arms and neck. "Are you all right?"

I nod slowly, unfolding my fingers.

"Boromir tried to take it."

Frodo's gaze grows stern. "I heard he said you were his as well; what does that mean?"

I swallow, flicking my eyes away. Frodo bends down, persisting for an answer, and I finally open my mouth.

"He thinks he loves me, Frodo," I whisper. "But he can't. He wants me to go with him when the quest is finished and be the stewardess of Gondor." I swallow, turning my gaze away as I remember the frenzy of kisses down my jaw. I clutch my neck as though to stop the memory, or the panic in my imagination and realization in that moment.

Frodo grabs my hand from my neck, knuckles brushing against my skin.

"He's fallen prey," Frodo says softly, but I detect something darker in his tone. My head cocks as he continues. "It is perhaps not safe for the Fellowship to remain in one piece."

A small smile stretches on my face as I survey the little hobbit. "You just get smarter every day, don't you?" I mutter. Frodo blushes a little, and I shake my head. "I think you're right." I stand shakily and attempt to walk with my walking stick. I'm still trembling as I slip the Ring into the pocket of my trousers.

Frodo nods and turns away from me, leading me back down towards the Fellowship.

"We'll have to slip out quietly," I remind him. "Otherwise a few of them will likely attempt to follow."

Frodo nods, then glances down at the ground. "Perhaps while they sleep tonight. Should we tell anyone?"

"Definitely. They'll be frantic if no one knows where we went." I hesitate. Perhaps the orc army doesn't come; Aragorn didn't show up to swear his allegiance to Frodo once again. "And we'll want to tell Aragorn to lead the others back to Rivendell, perhaps, or at least to join the armies of Rohan or Gondor. Without the Ring amongst them their possibilities are far more open."

He stares at me, wide-eyed. "Army? Minah, I'd hardly send them away from a mission into Mordor just to fight masses of orcs, and possibly be killed."

"What choice do they have? No matter where they go, they'll either be caught up in ambush or war," I insist. "And Aragorn is the rightful King of Gondor; knowing him he'll wish to assist his people, and he'll be more than wiling to go back—I believe—without the hindrance of the Ring."

Frodo nods slowly. "But Sam . . ."

I freeze. Perhaps Sam doesn't even come with us.

"Minah!" Aragorn calls out.

Frodo and I both spin around. Aragorn steps up to me, then glances down at Frodo. "Are both of you all right?"

Frodo nods assertively, and I assume there's something I don't know about.

Then again, there's something Aragorn currently doesn't know about as well. So I admit to him that Frodo and I think it's safer for the Fellowship to split up, that he and I will go to Mordor and everyone else can stay either to help fight or to seek refuge elsewhere. Aragorn glances at Frodo's neck, then at mine, and asks where the Ring is.

Frodo holds out his hand, and I hesitantly slip the Ring into it along with its chain. I don't trust it to be careful with Frodo, and know that it has no intention of being so. I watch him carefully as he slips it into his breast pocket. I flick my gaze to Sting, but it isn't glowing. My brow furrows; maybe Boromir survives as well. I'm not sure.

And perhaps we leave under cover of dark.

Aragorn walks us back to the campsite. I feel a little dumbfounded . . . but when we get there no one is present.

I step cautiously around the discarded cloaks and weapon sheaths. "Samwise? Legolas? Boromir!"

When I turn around, Frodo's unsheathed Sting, and it's pulsing blue. I frantically leap forward, grabbing his shoulder, only for an arrow to catch my sleeve and slam me into the tree behind me.

"Frodo, run!" I cry.

Aragorn unsheathes his sword as Frodo breaks away into the forest. I grab the arrow and yank it from my sleeve, racing after Frodo.

I don't see very many orcs, but I know they're out there. I spot Pippin and Merry soon enough, and Sam with them, but Frodo is nowhere to be found. His cry echoes through the woods, and I race after it. I find him being hauled away by an orc, and I race forward as I unsheath Iorhael.

"Put him down!" A thud of adrenaline shoves through me; I know the words are useless, but they make me feel a little more powerful. I bang the flat of the sword against the orc's head, and he crumples to the ground—chances are good my arm isn't going to stop aching for a few days.

By the time I look up, Frodo's leaped into the woods again. I chase him around in a loop until we're back towards the canoes. Orc corpses are shed across the ground, slowing me with uncertain nausea; I leap into one of the canoes and then pause, waiting for him to think back on Gandalf. But he doesn't. Frodo jumps in with me, hastily pushing off without a backwards glance.

"Frodo, are you all right?" I ask softly.

He glances back, then settles his breathing a little. "Yes, Minah," he insists. "I'm all right. Come on; I don't think we can spend much more time here."

I wait for Sam . . . but he doesn't come.

I shudder to myself. Maybe I'm alone. I can't carry Frodo on my own; the Ring is too heavy.

My head shakes solidly, and I realize I have no room for doubts. If Frodo is in danger, he's in danger, and I'll look after him to the best of my ability no matter what.

I take the oar from Frodo and start rowing. So I don't know exactly how to do it, but I have a good idea of how. He grabs the other oar and helps; we go much straighter after that.

Finally I hear a splash behind me, and I turn.

"Frodo, no!" Sam cries.

Frodo shakes his head and plows forward.

"Frodo, listen to him," I say.

He turns back to me, his stare intent. I swallow at the strength of it as he speaks. "I'm risking as few people as possible, Minah. You're coming with me because I don't trust anyone else with you, but Sam must stay behind."

His gaze and voice soften when he addresses me, and I'm honestly rendered speechless. I blink uncertainly as he tells Sam to go back.

Finally my wits come to me again.

"Frodo, he's going to drown trying to get to you," I insist frantically. Before Sam can fall underwater or Frodo can protest, I leap into the river, swimming back to grab Sam. Frodo's voice escalates into the air, calling out my name. I shudder with realization, the fear and pressure of the moment packed into a simple word from Frodo's strained voice. I swim forward, blindly reaching out for Sam. I break the surface of the water just as he slips under, and I leap for him. I wrap my arms around his body, dragging him above the water. He gasps for air as I strain to reach Frodo.

The canoe arrives quickly, and Frodo grabs Sam from me. I lift the hobbit into the ship, and he collapses against the floor of it, heaving for air. I don't dare launch myself up after him for fear of tipping the ship.

But I don't swim forward either; I wait in the water, my hair swirling like tangled kelp around me, while Frodo's brow creases with worry.

"Sam, if you come you could be killed," he manages.

Sam shakes his head. "But I made a promise, Mr. Frodo. A promise! I said to myself, 'Don't you leave him, Samwise Gamgee.'"

Tears flood Frodo's eyes, and for a moment I'm awestruck: one of the most magical moments in all of fantastical history and I'm a part of it. It's a little different from what I remember, though.

Frodo's hand drifts over the side of the little craft, and I lay my own fingers across his as he speaks: he's trembling, and he's cold. "I thought Gandalf told you that."

Sam nods. "Aye, Mr. Frodo; but I told me that too."

Frodo bites his lip, and his eyes sink closed. "Sam . . ." He leaps onto his friend, holding him as tightly as he can. "Oh, Sam." His voice cracks this time; I reach up at last, but I'm still just watching them. I propel the boat forward very slowly as not to disturb them, but enough to give them progress.

Finally he backs away from his friend, and I realize perhaps I really will be in the background as Gandalf always meant me to be. While I'm just barely jealous of Sam, I care for both hobbits and hope they can carry each other when I'm incapable.

They grab their oars and begin rowing, but we're to the shore before they have two or three strokes in. Frodo glances hurriedly back at me.

"Minah, you stayed down there?" He looks doubtful.

I nod. "I figured I'd tip the boat." Frodo leaps out of the canoe and extends a firm hand to me; with help from Sam they get me to my feet. "I may be average for a human, but I'm a bit bigger than a hobbit."

Frodo chuckles a little at that. He and Sam lead me through the forest up to the overlooking cliff of Emyn Muil. A labyrinth of rock rests before us, as does a distant flat that I can only assume is hundreds of miles of marsh. I rationalize I must be exaggerating; probably not _hundreds_ of miles. Then the black line of Ash Mountains in the distance . . . and Mordor.

"Mordor," Frodo breathes. "I hope the others find a safer road."

"You'll see them all again," I whisper. Frodo and Sam both turn to me, and I glance down. "If I know correctly, most of the Fellowship survives; Pippin and Merry will rise to become heroes, and Aragorn will claim his throne." A broad smile rises to my face. "Gimli . . . Legolas . . ."

They're at least content with that response for the time being.

Sam keeps on. "Besides, they're far away from the Ring. They're fine, and so are we, Mr. Frodo."

Frodo smiles. "Sam, I'm glad you're with me."

Chills race up my back, hearing him say that. But then he gestures Sam to go into Emyn Muil first . . . and turns back to me.

"Minah, I'm sorry for dragging you into this," he admits, biting his lip. I kneel down before him, and he cups my face. His fingertips softly brush my ear, reverently tracing. "I'm glad you came, but I'm honestly worried. Sam is no warrior . . . but thus far he hasn't been hurt."

I smile weakly; I don't know how this will play out either.

"Don't worry about me," I say. "You're safe, and that's all that matters to me; make it out of this mess, and I'll follow you wherever you go. There and back again."

Frodo seems somewhat satisfied with that. Despite his size, he insists on leading me down into the rocky maze. He takes my hand, and it doesn't seem so much for his comfort as much as trying not to leave me behind. That again strikes me as strange; I take longer, faster strides than Frodo does.

I don't know how to get through this maze, but I can only hope we make it through alive. I squeeze Frodo's hand, feel the warm pulse against my skin; as long as he's alive I don't care what happens to me. I'm only glad I wasn't lying.

 **And yes, the whole Boromir thing was designed to be awkward. XD But it does all resolve, I promise. Thanks for the reviews so far; love to hear what you have to say! :)**


	14. Rock Maze, Not Helpful

**Diem Kieu: :D I don't think Minah is going to be handling it very well as the near future approaches. XD Either that or she's just unemotional. Thanks! DFTYA!**

 **Me And Not You 1001: SWEET Am ready to read that story! I should study up more on Haldir. O.o I'm familiar with him, but it would certainly give me insights into your stories.  
Thanks! :) Yeah, I wanted . . . well, I felt like he came across as dark under irrational influence of the Ring, and I wanted to emphasize that. I'm glad it came across right. :D**

 **Jayla Fire Gal: Thanks so much! X) As promised. :D I hope you enjoy Two Towers! Although Gollum . . . he doesn't get as awkward as Boromir does, thankfully.**

 **EtheGoldenSnitch: XD I'm so glad you appreciate that. :D She doesn't hit people often, but that certainly calls for anyone to bring out a slap. Thanks! There shall be more.**

Within hours I know we're lost. I can see Mordor in the distance, but they keep plowing forward as though they know where they're going. Frodo glances back periodically to make sure I'm following.

Night comes quickly, and I realize it was only this morning that we left Rivendell. I shake my head wildly; that makes little sense, but I suppose I understand, thinking back on having no sleep since.

Frodo isn't too exhausted, but when I ask him for the Ring he hands it over easily. He asks first why I want it, and I assure him I want to make sure neither of us are overly attached to it; that will be our downfall, I tell him.

He seems a little skeptical, and I know his protectiveness is only going to help the Ring.

I tell them stories that night; we don't light a fire for sake of avoiding unwanted attention, so I let the hobbits cuddle up against me for warmth. I sink into the opportunity—they grow so tired, and are rather lenient in looking adorable.

Soon Sam rolls away to get some sleep, and I hold Frodo close. I feel his scar for a chill, but there isn't one present.

"Well, good night, Frodo," I say quietly, about to pull away. He clamps his hand over mine on his heart, holding it there. I remain, but despite the fact that he just wants to stay where he is I tell him I need sleep if nothing else.

Frodo glances up at me. "Are you sure you wouldn't like to talk for a minute?"

I shrug. "That'd be wonderful."

After an uneasy minute, Frodo and I ease into analytical conversation. It surprises me just how intuitive he is, the things he notices about the world. I ask him what things matter to him most . . . and he says he's not sure anymore. He used to think travel would set him right, that perhaps at the time friends and home mattered more than anything.

"Now I don't know." He rubs my knuckles, pressing my skin against his scar. "At the moment . . . I suppose what's right here with me is all that can matter. My quest is too much to ignore; I must hold it above all else."

Now I have a new insight: I suppose, then, what broke him was his lack of ability to live up to his own expectation, to what he volunteered to do. No one else did that in the entire Fellowship, not in the entire story. Even Boromir let go of the Ring and his pride in the end . . . but Frodo always wanted it. He invested his all in the destruction of the Ring, being told by so many that he could and would be its downfall . . . and finding out he didn't have the strength to do it.

Initially I breathe a shaky sigh and rub my free hand over his shoulder.

"What of you, then?" he asks at last.

I shake my head. "You're right. What surrounds you is the most important."

"But what about at home?" Frodo asks, glancing up at me. "What mattered to you most before you came here?" He paused. "Who are you?"

My head now tilts to one side, surveying him. I bite my lip as I study his face; suddenly I have the urge to lean closer, feel that face against my skin again . . . perhaps his softly closed mouth against my own. I swallow.

"You've asked me that question a great deal," I manage. "What is it that you want to know?"

He shrugs. "Everything, I suppose; I get the feeling I don't quite understand what you are, or what you stand for."

I sigh and shuffle against the cliff behind me. "Here's what matters most to me, then: I love to write. I love stories. But what matters to me even more—," I don't know how to finish, because I can't tell him, not like this. "What matters, or at least mattered, to me most was finding the love of my life."

He doesn't react for a minute, and I can breathe again.

"Why?"

I swallow; he sounds skeptical. "Because I love consistency. Emotional stability in a mind where consistency is difficult to track . . . that's all I want. And people slip in and out of your life so often." I can't help but swallow again; this is so much to admit, my deepest wish, my greatest desire. But he asked, and currently my greatest obligation is to him. "Friendship is such a priceless thing, and I've always thought of love as powerful friendship . . . romantic love, transcendent friendship—there's nothing I want more, nothing I would fight for more. I want to find him and know what I'm fighting for, be there on his behalf, comfort him in his pain, give him everything he wants and prove to him that I love him more than anything."

I realize I'm ranting . . . saying what I've only ever said to myself before. It takes more energy than is initial to realize that someone is listening this time.

Frodo is perfectly still.

"I'm sorry," I manage at last with a sickened chuckle. "I suppose that's a bit much; I'm sorry, I didn't mean to burden you."

Frodo doesn't move; I glance down, wondering if he's asleep, but his eyes are open.

"Frodo?" I peer closer to him.

He shakes his head; he looks so distant, and I wonder what I've done wrong.

"Are you all right?"

He snaps out of it and stares up at me. "You told Boromir you had no one," he says softly. "How do you know you'll succeed in that?"

I sigh, settling back. "I just have faith that I will, I suppose. I've been promised by many people I love and trust that I will. I can't say all of them know everything . . . but I have at least the strength to believe them, even if I can't do anything else."

Frodo slips his fingers around mine and lifts my hand to his pale cheek. He doesn't look at me, as though I'm material enough not to react, which perhaps I am. But his skin is gentle, and as my fingers brush his face I'm a little lost in the realization that I can touch him, that he initiated it.

"I don't doubt you will meet a worthy man," he says. "And when that day comes I also don't doubt you will know him when you see him." I stiffen with a sharp inhale as he turns, pecking the back of my hand before releasing it. His eyes don't meet mine. "Good night, Minah."

I blink in place, stunned by the soft brush of his lips against my skin. The contact was brief, but it won't leave me, I'm sure.

After a few minutes I at last fall asleep. Heavens, but that will never leave me. I stare at my hand wonderingly, holding it to my jaw . . . as though he would kiss me there. I shake my head solidly, ripping my hand away from my face: but too late, I've already imagined again what it would be like if those gentle lips caressed mine.

Finally a sour chuckle escapes me— _curses, Minah, he's a hobbit! You're crazy! He was saying good night to a servant he seems to care a little bit about. Leave it alone; nothing will come of it._

 _Besides, you're going to go home anyway._

I shudder at the thought and try to get some sleep.

~0~

The Elvish rope stretching into the fog before me doesn't look appealing; Frodo is adamant about not letting me go first, in spite of the havoc that might cause. This is one of the few times I challenge him, and he reminds me that even if his safety is my priority, I'm not the authoritative one in the group at present. I admit that and take a step back.

Maybe a good scare will convince him to let me protect him.

My heart lurches painfully when Frodo grabs the rope and swings over the side of the cliff. I suddenly have an image in my head, of when my sister went rappelling for the first time. I remember having a jolt of fear, although I knew she was all right, as though they could send anyone down but her and I'd be fine, which did turn out to be the case. It was a moment of what I assumed most mothers felt like . . . and later my own mother assured to me that this was true.

Now I felt the same way, only eighty times worse. I don't know what'll happen; there's no harness, no belayer, and I have to go down as well.

I shakily latch Iorhael to my thicker tunic belt—not the one I gave to Gandalf—using Frodo's old sleeve. It's crusted with blood, but I've never cared about blood much . . . as long as it isn't mass blood of somebody I care about. I shiver as Sam goes over the side, and then I slip onto the Elvish rope.

Every process in my body threatens to halt when I gingerly ease over the cliff; I'm holding onto a rope as thin as a needle, and my palms are growing slick—I could fall. I shudder and try to use my feet, probing for safe places to step on my way down.

My boots help; I'd probably fall if it weren't for them.

We climb down for a chilling fifteen minutes before I call out to Frodo.

"You at the base yet?"

His response—although he sounds fine—scares me, just the realization that he could still fall and break his neck. "Not yet!" Then he pauses. "Minah, didn't I tell you to wait at the top until we knew it was safe?"

I glance down at Sam; he's giving me a stern look. A blush creeps onto my face.

"You probably did,"I admit, still watching Sam. He looks like he could chase me back up. "But if you did I didn't hear you. Now what do you want me to do?" I wait wickedly, anticipating that he'll let me just come down with him.

"Stay right there," he insists; his voice is fading farther away. My eyebrows narrow. "That's probably the safest thing you can do . . ."

When I slack on the rope is about when Sam smacks into the cliff face, and I jolt.

He and I call out for Frodo simultaneously, although the wording is rather different between the two of us.

"Catch it! Grab it, Mr. Frodo!"

"Frodo, be careful!"

But I don't hear him slip down. Sam breathes a sigh of relief and continues down; I want to follow and ask what the heck just happened there, but since Frodo seems perfectly fine I don't dare until he's to the ground.

I let out a slight cry, however, when Sam slips on the rope and begins to fall.

"Sam!"

As he falls, Frodo calls out that he's reached the end of the cliff face, and then I hear a clang in the distant fog when Sam collides with the ground. I wince and immediately begin scaling the stone after them, only to hear Frodo again.

"Minah, are you all right?"

My eyes sink shut; I'm not the one we're supposed to be worried about, except that I'm the last one on the rope.

"I'm fine," I call back. My palms slicken again, and I reinforce my grip on the Elvish rope. "Don't worry about me, I'll be down in a moment."

The cliff seems to drag on, and in those moments when I try to move faster I can't get as far for the constant scrambling I do. My face burns—this is a little ridiculous, but I don't have much of a choice. I bounce off from rock to rock finally.

"Am I close?"

There's a hesitation.

"Relatively, yes," Frodo says finally, just as my foot collides with the ground. I stumble back, surprised, and he grabs my arm. My eyes lift; I won't say I'm exasperated, but I am uncertain at how concerned he is. He shouldn't be worried about me.

But he doesn't let go of my arm. I shift my gaze away from him, back to the rope. I notice before my eyes leave, however, that he still has the box of salt in his other hand. Out of my peripheral I see him pass it back to Sam. He shifts around me, transitioning his grip from my arm to my hand on the opposite side.

"We can't leave this here for someone else to follow us down," he says finally.

I decide to leave it to them; it's comical enough to watch.

But after that little conversation, Sam doesn't tug on the rope, and neither does Frodo. They turn to leave it, and I eye them balefully.

"Aren't you at least going to give it a pull?" I ask hopefully.

Frodo and Sam look at each other; the former shrugs as he looks back to me. "Would it come down?"

I shrug after a moment's pause. "I actually don't know . . . but it might."

Frodo eyes me carefully, then reaches over and yanks halfheartedly on the Elvish rope. "We're going to need it later anyway," I say, attempting to conceal my pride as it loosens from the rock and collapses in a pile at Frodo's feet.

The hobbit frantically turns to Sam.

"It was one of your knots, wasn't it?"

Sam nods, speechless, and both turn to me. Frodo glances down when I don't give them a response.

"Real Elvish rope, I suppose," he mutters.

They're both soon over that whole ordeal, and Sam takes the rope from the ground back into his pack as we continue on. As the sun rises and the fog clears, I wonder if Frodo will experience the weight of the Ring under Sauron's gaze. Then a sharp snap cracks down on the back of my neck, like I'm carrying a millstone or something. I wince at the pressure . . . and then remember the Ring is once again around my neck, not his.

I stare up at the volcano, and the Ring drags again. This time, though, it sears against my skin, as though burning into it. I stumble in place, and the Great Eye flashes into my mind. I choke suddenly, sitting down on a nearby rock.

Frodo and Sam are some paces ahead of me, mournfully trying to decide where to go now that they're lost. I don't want them to notice, and I try to gather myself together before I go to join them. But this weight—everything inside of me wants to drop it, to throw it far away, but I must keep it. I grab the chain, itching my neck, and then I think to look at my burden. I lift it out from my black tunic and stare at the little thing: it's actually a burden I suppose I'll have to adapt to, to have this sinister, powerful . . . perfect . . . _beautiful_ circlet of gold around my neck.

Disgusted with myself, I drop it. It thuds again against my chest, and I grip it with a slight groan; much as I'm sick of it, I don't want to give it back to Frodo just yet. But it's so heavy; it's less a complaint of the weight I have to carry and more the uncanny realization of just how burdensome this little thing can be—and how unsure I am if I can truly carry it.

By the time I look up, Frodo is standing above me. I scramble to my feet, but he puts a hand on my shoulder and sits me back down.

"You look like you need to rest," he says gently. I open my mouth to protest; he holds up a hand. "No; you stay right where you are." He turns to Sam. "What food do we have?" he asks, removing his waterskin. He holds it out to me, and when I don't take it he gives me a stern, concerned look. I accept it hesitantly, taking a little from it. I make a mental note to give him some of mine if it ever becomes convenient or possible.

I set the waterskin aside, thanking Frodo under my breath, as Sam opens his pack. "Let's see," he starts, and I begin mouthing the lines right along with him. Frodo catches my movement and barely contains a chuckle. I shiver with laughter myself until I'm finished, just watching his reaction.

Frodo gives me his lembas, and I chip off half of it. One of his eyebrows lifts.

"Frodo, a bite is enough to fill a grown man." I contain my snicker; Frodo doesn't know that line. "I only need a little bit of this."

Although hesitant, he accepts the lembas I give him, and I pop the corner of bread into my mouth. I love lembas; it's dense and it's powdery, but the taste of it is like white bread, exemplified beyond human capacity. It's filling, which would normally be a downside, but we're on a long road with no resources: I'm grateful for what I can get at this point.

I glance up at Frodo. "You guys don't handle rain very well, do you?"

Frodo's brow creases, and then thunder booms powerfully in the distance. I smirk just a little until I realize that they're going to be cold . . . but cuddling with a pair of handsome little hobbits for the whole storm shouldn't be bad.

I shake my head; that was an obnoxious thought of me.

About then Sam makes his comment about Elvish bread not being bad. Apparently he didn't hear me mention the rain, because the conversation carries predictably for a moment until the thunder cracks again.

"Come; we'd better find some cover," I say, gathering my stick up close to me. I wince against the strength of the Ring, and Frodo's eyes are locked on mine again.

He stands to follow me. "Minah, are you all right?"

I reach for the Ring, then throw my hand down. "I'm fine," I manage, but it burns a little again. "No wonder you tired of this," I breathe to myself. I never thought of Frodo as a complainer anyway, but thinking about all those comments on it I ever saw, I can't help but wonder if they would still say that after carrying this Ring.

Frodo shakes his head, grabbing my hand and turning me to look at him.

"Minah, the Ring is my burden," he says sternly, but his voice is soft. He looks very concerned, and I'm almost flattered until I remember that this could kill him. I open my mouth to protest, but he lifts his hand. "I don't wish you to trouble yourself over it."

As he walks away, beckoning for me to follow, I realize perhaps he doesn't remember I'm holding it. I allow my mouth to sink shut and walk after him.

They try to rest behind a canyon wall as night draws closer and the winds of the storm swells louder, but I manage to locate a cavity of rock where at least one hobbit can hide. Sam and Frodo both insist the other take it, and after a moment of protective debate I finally suggest that I'll be the substitute "rock cavity" for whomever stays outside. It only takes a glance between them before Sam slips into the rock cavity.

I settle against the canyon wall, spreading out my cloak. I pat the bottom of it, and Frodo nestles by my side. Then his gaze rises to my neck, and his brow furrows.

"What?" I'm pretty sure the Ring is inside my shirt; he shouldn't be able to see it.

He reaches up, fingering the chain, and my eyes flicker. His fingers slide underneath it; the contact forces me to stiffen as the Ring slides out into view. He shifts his grip, but not his gaze, to weigh the little circlet of gold.

"How did you get this?"

My face burns. "You gave it to me last night," I say. I reach up for the clip. "I said we ought to trade it off so that neither of us get too attached."

Frodo's head shakes wildly as the Ring slips down from my neck, and I hold the chain out to him. He doesn't reach forward for it, just slides closer to me. He nods to it, as though expecting me to put it on him. I move to do so, and he speaks while I move. "Of course, but Minah, I'm worried." I lift my hands beneath his curls, but I can't see the links. I lean forward slightly, shifting the chain so I can hook it together. Frodo puts a hand on my shoulder and pushes me back just enough so he can look at me. "I saw you today." His voice softens, vibrating through his chest just deeply enough that I feel it. His fingers drift across my cheek, spreading to cup my jaw. My eyelids flicker with uncertainty; his touch is slight and tender, nothing short of confusing. I wonder then what the heck he's thinking. "And you wouldn't be so persistent about this if it weren't dangerous. I'm sorry, but . . . much as I wish you could help, you can't. It will obviously do something to you."

I suddenly become conscious of the soft brush of his curls against the back of my hand, as well as how my fingers rest limply against the elegant slope of his neck. I clear my throat and quickly clip the chain of the Ring, backing away.

"I understand," I say; for a moment I don't actually process if I understand, I just need to back away. Then I clear my head and leap right into it. "I'm sure you're very worried. I just hope you'll let me help you, dangerous as it may be. Coming here with Gandalf sold the danger of it." Then I pause. "And I would honor his memory by helping you to the best of my ability."

Frodo muses over this for a long moment.

"Or by staying out of it," he points out, and my subsequent blush spreads furiously. Then he throws off that idea, although why I don't know; it makes perfect sense from what I understand to be his perspective. Perhaps he's giving up on my lack of involvement.

There are no words for a minute, and my gaze grows distant. Today was not a stressful one relative to what it could have been. While I know it won't be much to speak of later, I'm glad Frodo is safe.

How long do we have until Gollum comes? Only one more day, or a week in this rock? How long until Mordor? Until Faramir? I swallow and sit back against the rock . . . and then the rain starts.

Frodo wraps himself tightly in his cloak, and I squeeze him close to me. I get a little bit wet in the effort to keep him warm, but it's worth it. He doesn't really fall asleep, and I'm worried after a while. I glance down at his slightly open eyes, unable to do anything to initiate rest within him, and subsequently within me.


	15. Trapping Gollums

**EtheGoldenSnitch: XD Thank you. I'm glad to know you, Minah, and I are on the same page. :D I couldn't say that I know how to determine what is weird except that I'm excited to, so maybe that's the weirdness gauge! :). Oh, I'll be sure to hug a hobbit: you do too!**

 **Diem Kieu: Yeah! :) Expression in writing! XD And cuddling. :) Thanks for catching me in my publication error: I'm never going to forget again. And I'm probably going to say that three hundred more times . . . DFTYA!**

 **MeAndNotYou1001: :D! Thanks! Awwww . . . that makes me so happy. X) Well, sadly their first kiss could be a while, but I promise there's more than one. ;) Yeah! I was so sad when Haldir died. :( I'm so ready to come read your stories; keep up the inspiration!**

 **Jayla Fire Gal: Thank you so much. X) Yeah . . . still awkward, but not romantically.**

Eventually we both get to sleep, apparently, because I snap out of what I don't realize is slumber until I'm awake but don't want to be. I turn to follow Frodo reluctantly, but he's still resting peacefully by my side. I smile; this is a sight I shouldn't take for granted. After ten minutes or so I start memorizing the smooth contours of his face . . . but the more attached I get to him the more everything will hurt.

I guess that's the risk we all take, even if most of the time we don't see the future like I do now.

And somehow things seem to work out in the end. Even if they didn't work out perfectly for Frodo, he still has a way out of all the pain he feels. Even if I don't have to like how he wound up, he still did the right thing and still received a compensation.

And I _still_ don't like it.

How could he ever get over this kind of scarring?

Sam awakens before Frodo does, and we both decide to wait until he's ready. Fog begins to set in again; we haven't exactly had a clear dawn since coming here, and I doubt we ever will . . . until, perhaps, we near the marshes. I remember seeing sunlight there. Sort of.

I don't know why I'm still counting on my own knowledge of this story.

Sam steps gently over my lap, and I open my cloak. He settles by my side; I wonder if I resemble their mattresses at home, beds and comfort that they miss. I initially bury a kiss in Sam's curls; they've become family to me, like I told Frodo a few nights ago.

"You're cold," I say simply, rubbing Sam's arm.

He nods. "Even under cover rain is cold, Miss Minah."

I smile at him. "And I have no problem with that; you're welcome to stay until Frodo's awake."

"I am awake," Frodo mumbles. Sam and I jolt, and I turn to him. Frodo's eyes flicker tiredly up to me. "I haven't gotten any sleep at all; but it's getting far too bright. We should press on." He ducks out from underneath my hand and begins walking.

I grab Iorhael and follow; Sam is still cold, and I extend my hand for him to take. He accepts it, for which I'm glad. Frodo stumbles ahead of us, and I wonder how long he's going to last. The day wears on, and he begins to sway in place.

It doesn't take much after that; my eyes widen, and I hand my stick to Sam. I leap forward, catching Frodo as he slacks towards the ground.

"Frodo, you need sleep," I insist.

He shakes his head. "Mordor," he mumbles. He's completely exhausted; I don't trust him to walk. But before he can protest more, his eyes slip shut, and he's out.

I glance back at Sam.

"Can you handle carrying that for a while?"

Sam stares up at the stick; it's a foot over his head, but he nods. I smile and thank him. He's such a sweet little soul, and suddenly Frodo isn't the only one that's glad Sam is with him. I lift Frodo into my arms—he's very light—and begin forward.

Frodo's lack of movement disturbs me, but his lungs are swelling and settling very powerfully, so I don't worry so much about whether or not he's alive as what would have happened if I weren't here.

How much of the game can that possibly change?

When Frodo awakens, he protests.

"I can walk," he insists. "Minah, you're going to wear yourself out."

One of my eyebrows shoots straight up. "As if you wouldn't simply by walking." I step down carefully through the rocks; a pebble shoots out from beneath my boot—I jolt, nearly falling over at the imbalance—and tingles race up my feet. Frodo grabs onto my neck, latching his fingers around my cloak hood. I swallow, and the moment I've recovered from the shock of nearly falling over I continue, although more cautiously still. "The day you can carry me without getting exhausted, I'll believe that I can't carry you."

Frodo shakes his head. "I think you're a tad cracked."

"And I'm proud of it!" I want to wink at him, but I don't for fear that he doesn't recognize the line.

But luckily enough he does, and he laughs slightly. I chuckle as well, ruffling his hair before I set him down. He seems awake enough now that I think it's not a bad idea, and if he wakes up any more he might struggle, and that's something I don't know if I can psychologically handle.

I turn to Sam and hold out my hand.

"Thanks for holding my stick."

Sam nods, extending it to me. I pause, because he looks a little sheepish.

"What is it, Sam?" I ask as I accept it.

Sam points behind him. "While you were carrying Mr. Frodo, I thought I saw someone following us, so I tried to pull out your sword." He blushes slightly. "I hope I didn't break it."

I cage my chuckle; I doubt he could've broken it. But I grab the hilt just to make sure anyway, slipping the sword from within Iorhael's smooth shaft. There's nothing broken, and I nod at him to assure him that it's fine. I wonder then if Frodo and I will both be captured when it comes to Shelob, and if Sam will have to carry three swords or abandon Iorhael.

I'm playing around with it in my mind for a while. The day drags on as we try to figure out the maze; there's still no sign of Gollum.

Then I wonder if Sam saw him when he tried to unsheath my stick, and a flutter of panic follows me like a shadow for the rest of the day.

After three weeks of about this routine—that is, Frodo's lack of sleep and my subsequent carrying of him until he gets sufficient rest, followed by a remarkably uneventful day aside from a possible but unlikely sighting of Gollum—I truly begin to worry. Frodo asks me about then what we need to do; I wonder if he's trying to use me as a last resort, which wouldn't surprise me.

I've become draggy over the past few days; it's too much to realize that we could perhaps die here. Much as I would like to avoid danger, we have to store up on our lembas. He asks me while we're sitting under cover of rock, and both hobbits are huddled against my body for warmth and protection. Sam's already snoring under one of my arms.

"Minah, how do we get out of this?" Frodo sounds remarkably desperate.

I shake my head, turning to stare outside at the darkening fog. We've basically given up for the day; we noticed a few days ago that we're just going in circles.

"We receive help from Gollum," I say. My gaze is hazily locked somewhere in the distance, probing for Gollum in a place I cannot perceive now. "We probably can't get out without him."

Frodo sighs slightly. I've grown more attached to him over these past few weeks, and I realize the emotional pain of this journey is only going to be worse if Gollum doesn't turn up fast. Maybe if Frodo grows irritable from the Ring I'll revolt against my current, growing feelings for him. I shudder when I wonder if it could possibly get worse there, if I can go any deeper.

Holding him is really all I want. I shake the thought away; I can't think like that. Sure, it's my job, but that doesn't mean I can get emotionally attached.

"How do we find him?"

I shake my head at Frodo's comment. "He finds us." Despite my assertions that I won't get deeper into this (which is impossible at this point), my fingers flicker up his arm and squeeze his shoulders. He slacks against me; why is it acceptable for me to have this effect on him? I don't like it.

Maybe Gandalf chose comfort all too well.

"You and Sam were sleeping on the ground at the base of a cliff," I say, throwing my thoughts aside. "Will be, I suppose. He'll come down, whispering and hissing. You both spring up and catch him . . . he tries to strangle Sam, almost gets the Ring . . ." Frodo stiffens by my side, shivering a little. "And after you tie him up and drag him along for a while, you start to pity him."

I glance down, and his brow furrows.

"Pity him?" He stares up at me, almost glaring. "Why?"

I pause, trying to think of a pre-written line I can use. But there's nothing from Lord of the Rings. "Because you look at him . . . and you see how much he's gone through. He had the Ring for . . . for centuries, I think. The burden you carry now is one he's known for so long. And although you are stronger—that you haven't succumbed to its power—you know what he's been through, and you want to help him. Besides, after you let him go he helps _you._ "

Frodo just looks perplexed now. I bury a kiss in his curls and settle back.

 _Say something,_ I think, but he looks too confused; I doubt I'm going to get him to say anything.

"Get some sleep," I say. "We've got another long walk tomorrow. Hopefully we see Gollum."

Soon I drift off to sleep. I have a dream like I haven't had in weeks: _Frodo and I are sitting on the front lawn of Bag End. I'm holding him again, with both hands. A hope rattles around in my chest as I stare through the vast trees of the Shire into a pink and purple dawn; something's going right._

 _Gandalf speaks to us for a moment. He says something about staying in the Shire, becoming a hobbit. Frodo's cold, but I can help him; I don't really mind._

 _We thank Gandalf, and he walks away. I stare down at Frodo. The image of him is hazy, but I know who it is without question. He reaches up and settles his fingertips against my cheek. He traces there distantly, his gaze following his touch with some sort of guileless interest. I reach up and press his hand there; I don't have the conscious fight I did earlier today not to get attached._

 _I'm already tied harder than I will ever have the strength to break._

 _The dream feels so stark now, it's unnerving. Frodo leans up and touches his soft lips to my cheek. "I love you," he whispers as he backs away._

When I awaken the next morning, I'm for once lying down. I realize with a strain to my back that I've only ever been standing or sitting since the shores of Amon Hen . . . and I begin to panic after that short rest, because I think Frodo's gone.

But soon I look up and see him and Sam standing at the front of the little cave we'd stuffed ourselves in. I sit up and stretch, attempting not to alert them.

"I don't see him, Mr. Frodo."

Frodo shakes his head. "She said we'll be feigning sleep when he comes." Frodo turns away from Sam and pauses when he sees me sitting up. I blink tiredly; if he has anything to be shocked about, I don't pick it up at all. I'm terribly hungry and tired, but we can and should keep moving. I decide not to say anything.

I grab Iorhael from my side and stand. The hobbits are still as I step through the crevice and start walking. After they don't follow, I turn to them.

"Well, are you coming?"

Sam pauses, looking to Frodo, who steps forward. I'm suddenly afraid of what he might say.

"Minah, I think you should lead us. Take us to a place that looks familiar, somewhere perhaps that Gollum will come out."

As we walk, I attempt to scour the cliffs for anything I've seen before, but the last thing that struck a chord in my memory was the rain from a few weeks ago. Frodo asks periodically if anything seems right, but I have nothing.

Later that evening I locate a little crevice at the bottom of a small cliff that looks right. I stare up the face, my brow furrowing as I try to decide if this is where Gollum showed up. I hand my stick to Sam and begin crawling up the face.

Frodo and Sam frantically call after me, but I wave them off: I know it's dangerous. And maybe I didn't know I had a choice whether to stay or go home, but now that I'm here I'm glad to be here, even if it means climbing simple rocks. The rappelling was much harder anyway.

I glance down the cliff, and my eyes widen with epiphany: this is definitely the place.

Not being an avid rock climber, I've only gone up a small distance. I shakily carve my way back down the rock and leap to the ground. Sam leans on my stick, breathing heavily. Frodo's giving me a stern glare.

"This is the right spot," I announce. Then I cock my head. "What?"

Frodo grabs my hand. "Minah, was that necessary?"

I blink at the sudden sharpness in his tone, and I nod slowly. "I only ever saw it from such a high vantage point, or a more distant one. I wasn't going to get hurt . . ."

"But you could have." Frodo bites his lip and exhales powerfully.

I'm puzzled now, and I shrug it off; I don't know what reaction he wants from me. Perhaps I ought to apologize, but there was no danger in going up, particularly at the lack of distance I managed. Then I pause—perhaps it's a greater distance to him: he's a hobbit. For him my going up nine feet or so must have been the equivalent for me of more eighteen feet, approximately.

That still doesn't solve my puzzle.

"Am I simply not careful enough in general?" My voice softens, lower than usual.

Frodo nods emphatically. "You're rather reckless with yourself, and it's a habit I do not condone."

My eyebrows shoot straight up and lock in place. I think, _He acts like he owns me!_. . . and then I realize he does. I settle, bowing slightly.

"Of course, sir. I'll let it go."

Frodo's eyes settle closed. "No sir, Minah." He opens his eyes again, extending his hand to me.

I eye it, then flick my gaze up to his own. "A friendship is too dangerous. You seem concerned for my well-being . . ." Then I slow to a halt. Of course he does: he doesn't know I could leave in the end. I debate only for a moment whether I should humor him or save myself from heartbreak, but I already know the answer: heartbreak is imminent at this point. I care about him.

Somehow I manage to shove a smile to the surface. I accept his hand, and he seems to relax.

"I'll be safer, I promise."


	16. Soft One

**Jayla Fire Gal: XD Thanks! I'm glad to hear that. X) That makes me feel happy feelers.**

 **Diem Kieu: Sadly, that doesn't come up for a while. :( Thanks! XD This one has the sappiness! And will have the sappiness! *thunder cracks, maniacal laugh*DFTYA!**

 **EtheGoldenSnitch: Mediocre? :P I don't believe you. XD But I do believe the kissing-curls part! Because-flippin', I'm a sappy soul, and I love little sensitive stuffs. XD That's awesome! Thanks! :D Mouth of Sauron. I'd rather do something gross than kiss a creature that hurt Frodo as much as Gollum did . . . although he did try to help, but he also tried to strangle my hobbit. -.- What do you think? Who would you rather? :D**

 **MeAndNotYou1001: Yeahh! :D Thanks! It'll . . . well, I think we're over halfway. And the ending won't actually be here in Ringbearer's Baymax; it'll be published as a separate sequel. "You Mean Both Worlds to Me," specifically. Darn internet. :P Well, I look forward to your work! Once I'm done with all my competitions . . .**

Despite that assertion, I tell him that Gollum will attack him for the Ring, so perhaps I should take it for safekeeping. Frodo hands it over . . . but he seems reluctant. As I slip the Ring around my neck I have a violent desire to keep it from him, founded on the fear that he won't be able to handle it. Suddenly I'm afraid of carrying the Ring myself, but I have to handle it to keep Frodo safe.

Frodo and Sam settle in the niche of the rock below where Gollum should appear later in the night (as close to morning as possible, I hope). I watch them longingly, wishing I could be with them and hold them. Moments after I get myself comfortable, Frodo sits up from within the niche over there; my head cocks.

"Are you all right?"

He glances around for a moment, back at Sam who's still situating himself. Frodo slips up to a standing position; he looks nervous. I pat the ground by my side, and he kneels down. He's so small, it's rather endearing.

"It'll be fine," I insist. "I know it'll be frightening, but you'll be fine."

Frodo swallows and stares up at me. "I'm aware."

My head cocks. "Then what is it?" I feel his forehead; he's not warm, not cold—he's shaking. "You're trembling. What's going on?"

Frodo shuffles in place for a moment, then reaches forward and kisses my cheek abruptly. He backs away, looking less traumatized and subtly more worried.

"Just be careful."

With that, he turns and rolls with hard deliberation back into his cloak. My eyes widen, and my fingertips drift to my cheekbone. I feel the skin there as though it's bruised and needs to be handled with caution . . . but it truly feels that way. There's a mark on my heart now; I sense something different on my cheek. There was no searing fire, I didn't have time to emotionally pack that up, but it tingles.

I listen for Gollum, turning over on my side. I hear him eventually, and wait for Frodo and Sam to leap up and grab him.

But after a few minutes, they still haven't moved. I open my eyes worriedly, only to find that I'm not facing the direction I thought I was, and that instead of by the cliff, Gollum is somewhere in front of me.

I startle to a sitting position and scramble for Iorhael, but then a quiet hiss sounds, and I'm shoved to the ground. I open my mouth to cry out for Frodo, and Gollum slams his wiry hand over my open lips. His fingers make it inside; I choke on the bitter nastiness of them. He draws his fingers back out and cracks his fist against my forehead, and I collapse to the ground, weary with dizziness.

Gollum easily drags me away. As my body shuffles over the rocks, I weakly attempt to call out for help, but there is nothing. I at least wish I'd left the Ring with my stick; now I'm unarmed except for it. I have to turn invisible when he's not watching, or he'll kill me and take it. Then Middle Earth will be crushed, assuming Sauron's guards find Gollum again, and Frodo will die here.

I scramble harder against the creature's bony grip, but he doesn't let go. When I come to fully, I realize he's cackling.

"What do you want with me?" I manage at last.

Gollum huffs and throws me in a nearby cave. My back slams on the rocks, but I waste no time in rising to my feet. Gollum hisses, limping to my side. He grabs my hand and yanks me back down to the floor.

"Is it soft, Precious?"

My eyebrows narrow. "No, it is not soft, it's metal, for heaven's—wait." Epiphany morphs my brain, and I'm now horrified.

Gollum licks his bottom lip, and I shudder at the methodical shift of his tongue between sharp, intermittent teeth. "Soft and supple it is, Precious."

I shake my head violently. "No, no, no; you don't understand!"

The creature ignores me, as I should have expected. He reaches up with his trembling, bony fingers; I make the attempt to jerk away, but he snatches my arm, running his fingertips over my skin. I groan and writhe back, and I reach around to kick him. Gollum shakes his head.

"Too violent, yes," he hisses. He clubs the top of my head again, and I slack with weakness. My head hits the ground; a vague impression follows of Gollum pressing on my stomach, testing it out like a mattress. He curls up like a cat on my lap, purring and hissing. In spite of my current incapability, I writhe a little in place. I eye the cave entrance, knowing I could probably get there fast enough.

Then again, this creature is stronger than I ever realized. He's small, wiry, bony, but he spends his life catching fish: I shouldn't be any challenge at all.

The moment I feel I have the strength to do it, I throw Gollum away from me and leap up for the entrance. I can't move fast enough, I know, despite my adrenaline that is rather rare for me. But hope swells in my lungs when I'm within one pace of the crack in the mountain . . . but Gollum yanks me back by the wrist into the cave, throwing me to the ground.

He wraps his hands around my neck, his eyes seething. I swallow, frantic, when I realize perhaps he's spotted the Ring.

But no such thing, I suppose.

"We keeps it dead, Precious, if it moves again," Gollum spits, glaring at my eyes.

The sudden terror flowing in my blood is enough to keep me from resisting.

"Gollum," I manage.

His eyes widen. "It knows us, Precious."

I nod hurriedly, but I'm not sure how to continue. I thought about begging for my life, but now I wonder what I can offer him to get Frodo and Sam out of Emyn Muil, and through the marshes. If he doesn't get caught by them, there's no deal he can make.

"Gollum, I need to get back to the hobbits."

Gollum's eyes darken. "The hobbits cuddle the soft one." His hands drift from my neck to my shoulders, and violent shudders take over my body. "Hobbitses don't need soft one, Precious." He cowers back, his eyes rolling with the agony of a contained sneeze. _"Gollum, gollum!"_

I shake my head wonderingly, then sit up and face the creature. He rolls onto my legs as I cross them, and he smiles deviously up at me.

"Soft one mustn't run away," he jeers. "We eats soft one if she runs."

I swallow and glance down, but Gollum is difficult to avoid staring at. I finally shift my gaze to him once again.

"Gollum, soft one has something she must do," I explain carefully. When I stop speaking, only Gollum's rasps of breath fill the air. He stares up at me, his eyes wide. I don't think he cares if I have a quest, but I'm going to fight him until he lets me go if he doesn't agree to show me the way out.

"What is it?" Gollum whispers.

I leap on the opportunity he's just given me, shuffling closer to him in my excitement. Gollum shifts, pleased, and I suddenly regret my decision. "I have to get to Mordor," I say. Gollum's eyes narrow at this, and he shakes his head violently, but I persist. "Please, Gollum, I'm going to die if I stay here. I need you to take me to the Black Gate."

Gollum doesn't even take time to think about this. "But we don't needs the soft one to live, Precious."

"I'll run away," I threaten. "Or I'll beat you until you can't feel."

I know he's called my bluff; he cackles wildly. "Runs? Beats us?! Soft one couldn't beat hobbits!"

I fume at this. "At least let me get my stick," I grumble under my breath. Gollum doesn't hear me, slowing his laughter. He stares up at me and licks his lips again; I hope that's just a habit. He could very well eat me regardless of whether I run away, or worse.

At last I have a thought, but I don't know if it'll work on him.

"Gollum, the hobbits are my friends," I insist. "Please; let me go back to them. I need to take them to Mordor." Then I pause. "If you take me to the Black Gate, I'll . . . I'll cuddle you instead of the hobbits."

Gollum stares me down, and I wince: I knew it would be a ridiculous idea.

"Soft one can't do anything for herselfs," he hisses. "We eats her or she comes with us, out of the sharp rocks."

I hesitate. I could follow Gollum if he guided the hobbits and me out of here. I nod and stand. He shifts at my movement, flicking his gaze to the cave entrance. "All right," I say. The more assertive I am, the more likely I am to escape. "Let me go get my things from where you found me, and I'll go with you."

"You're going back for hobbitses," he snarls.

Before I can back away Gollum reaches forward and snatches my wrist.

"Let go! I'm going back for them; let me go!"

Gollum yanks me forward; I dig my heels into the stone, dragging back on him.

"We go back to the mountain, Precious," he hisses. "Back to the fish, the dark . . ."

I scramble back, but there's nothing I can do to escape. I'm running out of energy, and I'll likely starve to death if I go. Besides, if Gollum is gone the hobbits are done for, and so is the quest. That last thought pounds with my heartbeat harder than any other realization. Panic bubbles up in my lungs, firing from my mouth in a single scream.

"Frodo!"

~0~

Gollum drags me along easily for a few hours, all day in fact, before I see the entrance to the rock maze. I scramble against him, continually crying out for Frodo, for Sam, for anybody, but mostly for Frodo.

My steps grow uneven, exhausted, pained, behind Gollum. I think he could carry me if he wished, although I couldn't wish for that less.

I've lost all desire to try anymore, and I glance behind me painfully.

"Save yourselves somehow," I plead . . . and then out of the corner of my eye, the stick flashes down behind a rock. My eyes widen, and I turn back to Gollum so as not to alert him.

We're almost out of the rocks when Gollum halts, sniffing the air. He hisses once before Sam leaps out from behind one of the rocks, angrily shouting. He barrels into Gollum and throws him to the ground, ripping the creature away from me. Frodo grabs my elbow and yanks me back, unsheathing Sting. He doesn't say another word before leaping over the rock, dragging Gollum away from Sam. He locks the blade around Gollum's neck, and the creature freezes.

"This is Sting." The venom in Frodo's voice stuns me, and I jolt. "You've seen it before, haven't you, Gollum? Don't move, or I'll cut your throat."

Gollum protests, but Frodo quiets him with a simple twist of his wrist. Frodo looks up at Sam.

"Grab the rope," he starts, but I've already located the pack and dashed to its side to get the rope out.

"It burns us!" Gollum manages, and I wince.

"If you'd gone with my deal earlier I might have saved you this trouble," I admit . . . although I realize my proposition wasn't much of a deal anyway. Gollum seethes at me as I tie a slipknot in the end of the Elvish rope. Frodo shakes his head when I approach them. I cock my head, confused, until Sam takes the rope from me and slips it over Gollum's head while Frodo backs away.

I squeeze my eyes shut, expecting the barreling wail that racks the air. Frodo nonchalantly sheathes his sword, and I take the rope from Sam. Sam looks a little hesitant, and I glance back at Frodo; I wonder if Frodo mentioned anything to him about his evident paranoia concerning my condition, but I think it better not to ask about such things for the present.

While Gollum wails on the ground, Frodo stares sternly down at my hand.

"Minah, you come in front with me," he says, but he isn't livid. I know if I were stubborn enough I could drag Gollum anyway, but I'm here to obey Frodo, and so I hesitantly let the rope back into Sam's waiting hands. I figure it would be easier for Gollum to be led by one that he doesn't know posesses the Ring, but perhaps Frodo is right.

Frodo extends a hand, and I take it. He halts suddenly and lowers me to my knees.

I smile weakly at his worried, only somewhat relieved expression.

"I thought he came down the cliff," I insist sheepishly. "Honest, I did."

Frodo tosses that aside and reaches forward suddenly, locking my torso in his arms. It takes me aback, and I embrace him as well. I shouldn't be surprised, but somehow I suppose I only thought I'd imagine something like this . . . Frodo himself being concerned for my well-being.

"At least you're still alive."

I nod, blinking away the sting in my eyes. I squeeze him close for a second. "I did my best to be careful, but now I suppose I'd better look both ways before I do anything."

He steps back and affirms that statement. He takes my hand while we walk; Gollum obstinately raises a racket behind us.

~0~

So things go fairly predictably from there, save a few clashes between Frodo and Gollum whenever the latter brings up that I look very soft and that hobbits are very fortunate to have brought a slave/food source with them.

Whatever pity there might have been is rather angsty and uncertain; I'm not sure that this will help the quest, to have animosity to this extent between them. Frodo only untied Gollum because of the whole pity factor I told him about earlier.

I'm rather worried.

Because Gollum took me all the way back to the entrance of Emyn Muil, we still have another day after this one before we can get to the marshes. We sleep under cover of an overhang; it isn't likely to rain, but there's always a possibility, and they always sleep by a canyon's edge if we can't find a cave.

I tell the hobbits that I'll take first watch, but Sam insists on doing it. I hesitantly glance at Gollum, who is ostensibly asleep on a nearby rock. I don't trust Sam to stay awake for long, but I suppose I ought to put my faith in the gardener; he does end up saving Frodo so many times, after all. I nod to Sam and slip into place beside Frodo.

The hobbit doesn't look tired. I wrap his shoulders in my cloak and peck the top of his head.

"You should get some sleep," I say.

He glances up at me, and I know he's not going to get some rest. I can guess what he's thinking, but not very well; I expect him to say something about Gollum, or the Ring, or perhaps jump back to the subject we started at Amon Hen.

He doesn't say anything, however, for a while, and I almost fall asleep right there.

Finally I hear him whisper, and my eyes flicker back open. He's staring out into the dark of the cliff, his crystal eyes shimmering a little.

"I haven't been held like this since before my mother died."

I straighten and watch him curiously. "Your mother?"

He nods, not bothering to turn. "I don't know how much you know about her."

I shrug, trying to be as sensitive as I can despite my curiosity. I reassuringly rub his shoulder, hoping I can help. "I only know that she was Primula Brandybuck before she married your father, and that . . ." I pause, uncertain as to whether or not I wish to move forward.

"And that what?"

He doesn't sound pained; just curious, and I hesitantly press on.

"That she and your father died when you were just ten years old," I say, letting my hand drift to his. I squeeze it and hope this is all right. "They drowned, didn't they?"

Frodo nods and responds to my touch; his fingers entwine with mine. "Yes. They were out for her birthday."

I wonder at that, and realize I have a question about them that burns deep down. They always debate amongst hobbits in Tolkien's novel if Frodo's parents loved each other; I feel it would be a tragedy I can't handle if they didn't, and I decide to ask him.

"Did they love each other, Frodo?"

His eyes flicker, startled, and I scramble to apologize. He speaks before I can. "Yes," he says again. His voice catches on memories long buried under water and rocky lake floor. "They loved each other more than any other lad and lass I ever saw in the Shire, have seen since. Most begin to bicker as they grow older, begin to tire of one another if they aren't careful." He swallows. "But my parents understood what love was meant to do, for them, for each other . . . for me." His gaze at last lifts, but not quite to mine. "Before they left, I told Mother I didn't want her to go." He burrows against me. "She held me just like this, and we sat in front of the fire while Father waited. She assured me that things would be all right, that everything wrong has a funny way of turning around on you, making you better than you were if you work and hope. I told her then that she could go if she was careful, if she came back to me." Finally a tear creeps its way out of his eye, tracking down his cheek. His breath grows shaky—his lungs shudder against my fingers—but his voice doesn't crack, in fact remains perfectly level. "She said she would. She kissed me on the forehead . . . told me she loved me . . . and then she was gone. I never saw her again."

He doesn't wait for a response; I don't have one, and perhaps he knows that. His voice drops to a strained whisper. "She was soft. She cared about me. She loved to read, and she loved my father more than anything in the world." He reaches back, tears now flooding both eyes, and strokes my hair. "She had long curls . . ." His fingers twitch against my hand. "She would hold my hand when I was scared, or just when I felt like it." He turns around, loosening my hold on him, and cups my cheek. My eyes flicker uncertainly as I stare into that intense, careful gaze. "Minah . . . she was a lot like you."

I bite my lip; it all makes sense now that I think about it, everything he does to protect me. I'm a little reassured and a little disappointed that I'm a mother figure to him. Despite that, I understand that she's gone, and my voice cracks. "I'm sorry," I admit. "I didn't know."

Frodo shakes his head hurriedly. "No, don't apologize." He kneels up, for once above me—I think that's the effect he wants anyway. His hand comes back to my cheek, then rises to my forehead and strokes my hair back. "I just—I want to make it clear to you just how hard today was, I suppose, knowing that you were out there somewhere, in trouble for how pained you sounded."

"You heard me?"

He nods. "When we saw your stick half sheathed, Sam guessed what happened. He saw Gollum take you into the cave and came back to tell me, but when we got there you were gone. And then I heard you." He bites his lip again, and his head slacks forward. His forehead meets mine solidly, and I blink from the pressure. "I imagined you were my mother; I can't help it. I imagined her drowning, calling out for me, and knew you would do the same." He shuffles in place, circling my shoulders with his arms. "I didn't know what Gollum was doing to you, but I wanted to be there this time."

Frodo breathes deeply, and I decide to let him have a moment. But I'm not here to be his mother at all; perhaps I could be. But what happens then when I leave?

I don't want to leave, especially not at a time like this.

His eyes flicker open, and he backs away eventually. "Minah?"

I stare up at him, uncertain how to respond. What does he want me to say? Finally, though, I decide on something.

"I only hope I can do for you what she did," I say softly.

Frodo's brow narrows, although it's less distaste or distrust so much as it is concern. "You've done enough, and I'm sure you will do well . . . but she promised she would come back, and you told me you would be careful. I need you to live up to that."

He looks like he could shatter, not so much for his expression as for him in general.

I reach up cautiously and hold his cheek. He nestles against my hand, and my thumb catches some of his tears; I wonder if his mother did this too. He turns slightly until his lips brush my skin. Tingles flicker up my arm as his mouth shifts, deepening against my palm before tenderly easing away.

"Besides," Frodo says, "if I lose you I don't know when I'll have another chance . . . another chance at something like this. Connections don't usually run this deep for me; I never courted because I didn't think a woman could love me as much as my mother did."

His bluntness is a little stunning, but I can handle it; as a matter of fact, I'd rather he be candid with me than anything. It is rather terrifying.

Eventually I coax him to sleep. He falls asleep with his head on my lap. Sam comes back, and I tell him I'll take watch. The other hobbit curls up under my arm, resting his head against my side. About then is when Gollum catches my eye.

He's glaring down at Frodo, occasionally flicking his gaze to Sam, before letting his eyes travel to mine.

I'm glad he's feigning sleep again in a few minutes.


	17. Frodo, I'm Sorry (Author's Note)

**MeAndNotYou1001: Thank you so much. :D I'm sorry to hear that; I'm glad it helped, but rough days are never fun. :P**

 **EtheGoldenSnitch: *stab in the feels* Thanks! XD Oh, absolutely. Well, I guess I can't sympathize because I didn't watch LotR until I was 15. O.o I would fight for . . . awww, shoot. Gondor, I think: I respect Aragorn very much as a character (partially because he understands why Frodo is so important O.o), and Gondor has a gorgeous capital. X)**

 **Jayla Fire Gal: Weeeeeelll, sometimes he forgets. Because it's a two-part Ringbearer he doesn't really ever feel the weight go away-neither of them do-so he just forgets that it's gone. Ja. XD Protective little thing; she loves him. :D**

 **Diem Kieu: Right? :P Mmmm . . . I'm ready for that. XD Thanks so much! I wanted the setup. XP DFTYA!**

We finally break out of Emyn Muil, and I feel like I can breathe again. I know the marshes are ahead, but I can keep Frodo safe. I hope.

Things go rather normally for a while; I sit at Frodo's feet when he tries to offer lembas to Gollum, but then as the minutes progress to that intense moment between Frodo and Gollum, I realize Frodo isn't wearing the Ring—I am. Gollum creeps forward, then glances up at Frodo.

"Where's the Precious?" he asks suddenly.

Frodo turns to me, and I freeze. Gollum stares up at me, then his gaze flickers across my tunic. He cocks his head.

"Where is it?" His voice darkens.

"Gollum, the Precious is with me," I say sternly, letting my fingers slip over the hilt of Iorhael. The creature's gaze hardens, and he creeps towards me.

"Where is it?" he repeats.

Frodo's eyes flare, and I scramble back as he steps solidly in Gollum's way. The creature cowers simply from the haste of Frodo's movement.

"Don't touch her." He doesn't sound so much angry and snappish as assertive, in a calculated, don't-mess-with-me-because-I'm-determined-not-aggressive sort of way.

After that statement, I don't see Gollum's reaction (although I can guess) . . . but I suddenly realize just how much I appreciate being protected. I sit up when Frodo joins me again. He permits a light sigh, and I squeeze his hand. He's such a little thing, but he's stronger than most people at home understand.

"Thank you," I whisper. He smiles up at me hopefully, and I see that pang in his eyes from last night.

I can't imagine how much his mother loved him if he treated her this way . . . or how worried she'd be if she saw him now. I'm rather glad at this point that he doesn't have a wife at home; that would be difficult for her, I'm sure.

It only grows more difficult when we finally see the bodies in the water. I grow tense there, hunching over and growling with Iorhael.

After Gollum gives his frightening monologue, Frodo turns abruptly back to me.

"Minah, you have the Ring?" he asks.

Shocked, I nod. He holds out his hand, and I hesitate. Frodo's gaze grows stern and concerned again, and I know I've done something wrong.

Then I realize perhaps I'm getting too attached to the thing.

I hurriedly unclip it, only to think that maybe I can keep him from everything wrong with this situation—except that I'll get addicted if I don't offer it to him. I hold it out for him to take, and he reaches forward. I think he's caught it, and I let it go to let him keep it . . . and it plops into the water.

Initially I cry out and drop Iorhael to leap in after it, but Frodo's already gone.

"Frodo! Wait!" He doesn't know what's down there. I slip into the marsh, but before I've even gotten submerged I'm grabbed from both sides and hoisted back out. Sam drags me back onto dry ground even as I struggle.

"Sam, Frodo's down there!" I yelp.

"I know, Miss Minah," Sam says, barely holding me back. He's so small I feel rather sheepish that I can't push past him; I rationalize that I haven't eaten much, but that might not be it: maybe I'm just a weak person. "Gollum's going to get him."

My eyes widen. "Gollum?!" Then my eyes sink shut. I already knew that.

Sam kneels down beside me. "Frodo said for me to protect you before him; he keeps saying that." Sam pauses. "And I believe him when he says it, so I want to help him keep you safe."

I shake my head. "You two are unbelievable." I smile and ruffle his hair. "Thank you, Sam."

It's about then that Frodo breaks the surface under Gollum's hand. Frodo stares after the creature as it limps away, and I race to Frodo's side.

"Frodo, are you all right?!"

Frodo nods, clearing his throat. His gaze doesn't turn to me for another shocked minute or two.

Sam rushes to lift him to his feet, but now I'm looking at Gollum as well. I realize there hasn't exactly been a bond ready to be built between them . . . and I wonder what happened. I catch Gollum's eye somehow, and he looks forlorn.

I can't figure out why.

When Frodo finally convinces Sam to follow Gollum, he turns to me and unfolds his fingers. He has the Ring, and I realize I didn't exactly pick up on it being lost.

I breathe a sigh of relief.

"Well, we didn't have to turn around and go home; I'm glad you found it." I glance up at Frodo and offer him my hand as I lift to my feet. He accepts it, and I take his cloak from him, wrapping my own around him.

"Minah, why did Gollum come after me? Does he do that in the story you remember?"

I nod. "He does . . . but I don't know why he did it just then. He accepted your pity in the original, but I didn't exactly see that in you the other day when we untied him." Then I pause. "Perhaps he just took it that way, as a kindness."

Frodo shrugs. "I suppose I don't feel I have much reason to trust him, but he did bring us out of Emyn Muil."

"Well, take Minah out of it." I feel strange saying my own name, but I have to put it objectively this way. "Or at least the whole kidnapping ordeal. What do you think of him then?"

He considers that for a moment, but I know he won't have long: we're catching up. "He still wants the Ring." Then his head cocks. "But I _do_ pity him."

In spite of myself, a grin rises to my face: Frodo may be different from what I expected, but he's the same soul, same hobbit . . . same hero, the same creature I've wanted to meet. Even if I don't understand him entirely, I'm glad to know him.

My mind keeps jumping to the end: I don't want to go home. I savor my walk with Frodo that day, down into the night and until we decide to get some rest. I lie down some five feet away from him, where I think he'll be facing when he starts caressing the Ring. I suddenly have a jolt; what will I do when he does that? It's moving too fast; I'm not ready to be almost halfway over with this adventure.

But he doesn't do it. He falls asleep, by some miracle, after wishing me a good night. My eyes flicker open once in a while—despite the fact that he's breathing deeply and shows no signs of stirring. The Ring is on the ground where I can see it, and his hands aren't even close to it. He's rolled up comfortably in his cloak.

Then why am I so worried?

It's almost as though . . . _I_ want to have the Ring back.

But he has to tell Smeagol what his real name is. I frown to myself; perhaps fixing things is only doing the wrong thing in a situation like this. I know the author often knows what they're doing when they take the time to structure a story, but being an author myself I thought I could get Frodo out of this mess without Tolkien's help.

Maybe I can't. Maybe I've just made a worse mess of things.

Then I glance past Frodo, and Gollum isn't there.

"So beautiful, so bright." Gollum's behind me, and I turn over, only to see him kneeling above me. I scramble back, but his gaze is locked on the Ring. "My . . . Precious . . ."

Frodo's eyes flicker open, and he jostles in place when he sees me. I hold up a hand, seeing this as an opportune moment.

"Frodo, wait," I insist. I lean forward, towards the protectiveness I see brimming in his eyes. "Talk to him."

Frodo stares down at me like I'm nuts, but he slowly creeps forward anyway. Gollum turns away from him only briefly, but is drawn back in by the Ring. Frodo shoves it into his shirt, then glances at me. I shrug.

He looks back at Gollum, and I see the shift in his stance.

"Who are you?" he whispers suddenly. It doesn't sound the same: not accusatory, rather mystified. I wonder if I could tell him everything.

I breathe a sigh of relief when that conversation carries forward. It goes a lot longer than I'd expected, Frodo asking things about the Ring that Gollum answers in riddles and riddles alone. Frodo finally asks him—with a light of dangerously dark epiphany—if he was just like a hobbit once.

And the moment he says it, a Nazgul shriek rings out.

I leap forward and grab Frodo, but before either of the others have begun to react he slacks, unconscious, onto the ground. I cry out, grabbing him by the arms. He's icy cold already; I drag him under a nearby, rotten tree, and by the time I've let him go my fingers are numb. I lift him into my arms and squeeze him tightly to me.

It goes about as expected from there until the shriek grows closer . . . right above us. I hunker down, only for the tree to be ripped out from above me. The dragon of the Nazgul roars powerfully as it throws the unfortunate plant away, and I turn to Gollum.

"Run!" I lift Frodo over my shoulder and launch forward with Iorhael, but before I've even gone far a pair of huge, harsh claws clamp around my torso, squeezing me tightly against Frodo. I yelp breathlessly as the points carve into my skin, and I'm lifted off the ground.

Sam turns back up to look at us. "Frodo!"

"Sam! Get to the Black Gate!" I cry. I wedge Iorhael between my legs, fumbling to unsheath the sword. The rest of the walking stick falls; I only hope I get that back. I adjust my grip on the wooden hilt frantically; I see the mountains nearing at a breakneck pace, and I hope I can get this done before it's too late.

The dragon warms Frodo enough—and the Nazgul stops screaming—so that the hobbit is soon conscious against my side. His eyes flicker open, then widen.

"Minah!"

I nod. "I'm aware," I say hastily. I swing Iorhael around, hoping even with my slick fingers that I don't drop it.

"Should I drop the Ring?" he asks.

"No! Don't drop it; no matter what you do, don't drop it." I lift Iorhael as we draw near the mountains of Mordor, and with a great yell I stab Iorhael into the dragon. The dragon screeches mightily, but lets me go. Such is the momentum that Frodo falls with me.

This is how I think it's going to end, until we fall amazingly close to the mountain. I know we're going to be splintered to pieces if I don't do something, and I stab Iorhael into the stone right beside me. It sparks on the stone with friction, and only slows us down a little, but at least I'm prolonging death a little bit.

I leap away from the mountain base, cushioning Frodo against me to break his fall. The dragon swoops down after us, snagging at my cloak. The momentum slows my descent, catches me long enough to halt the speed I've been gaining up until this point. Then the cloak rips in the dragon's grasp, and Frodo and I crash against the ground. I don't give him time to recover before the dragon comes to swoop around again, and I throw my Lorien cloak over us both, praying that this works.

My eyes squeeze shut; Frodo stares at me from within the cloak like I'm crazy, but I hope he trusts me enough to stay still. He jolts when the Nazgul shrieks again, and I slip my hand over his Morgul stab. He shudders back into a calm state, and the chill at my palm fades. I wait a long moment before I throw the cloak from off of us and stand.

The Gate hasn't opened yet, and I drag Frodo behind a nearby boulder. I'm surprised the guards haven't noticed, but the Black Gate is powerful enough that perhaps they never will.

"Minah, how are we supposed to get in?" Frodo hisses.

I glance down the path from around the bend. "If we do, it will be following an army that should send the signal for the gate to open."

Frodo's brow furrows. " _If_ we do?"

"In the story I studied, Gollum held you back too long to go in, said there was another way into Mordor." I rasp my voice to sarcastically imitate the creature. "A secret way; a dark way!"

Frodo stares up at me. "Why didn't he mention this?"

"You only asked to be taken to the Black Gate, he said." I shake my head. "We'll have to wait until it opens anyway, unless we want to turn back now for Cirith Ungol." I wince and glance at the ground. "Of course, the stairs are no good either."

Frodo cocks his head. "Stairs?"

I point to what I think is the north. "Up by Osgiliath in Gondor, there's a path into Mordor over a huge flight of stairs. But there's a huge spider at the top. I don't know if Gollum—Smeagol, I suppose—meant to betray you when he suggested it, but I doubt he did. He was still torn at the time."

"Torn between what?"

I shake my head. "You just like to know things, don't you?" He nods assertively, not remotely picking up on my sarcasm, and waits for me to continue. "Sorry. Well . . . you've seen him as Gollum, and you've seen him as Smeagol . . . or, if you will, the people within him, one that loves the Ring and is beyond hope of recovery and the other that may be weak-willed, but—but that eventually learns to care for you, Frodo."

Frodo's gaze flickers, and he glances at the ground.

"Will the Ring do the same thing to me? That it did to him?" His gaze comes back to mine, and I feel like he's staring right through me.

I shrug shakily. "Not as far as I know, unless you refuse your quest."

Frodo trembles a little; he nearly stands up. "Refuse it?" He shakes his head, emphatic. "I couldn't imagine wishing to let this Ring exist anymore." His gaze softens then. "Please, Minah; I don't know what story you do, and I don't need to know all of it; I just need you to help me. Please. Help me destroy this Ring as I have volunteered to do."

"Of course I will." I bite my lip, remembering Mount Doom. "You will accomplish your quest; I will see to it."

A skittering of rock sounds behind us, and Sam rolls down the mountainside. I scramble to my feet, reaching for him, and manage to catch him before he can get trapped in a rockslide. As he clambers down to join Frodo, I search the hill for Smeagol; he's nowhere to be found.

"Sam, where's Smeagol?"

Sam shakes his head. "I don't know," he says bitterly. "He up and abandoned me, the old villain. I had to follow the dragon when you were taken." He sighs shakily and collapses by Frodo's side. "I'm glad you're safe, Mr. Frodo." He offers me the sheath to my sword, and I thank him graciously for looking after it.

Smeagol doesn't come for a long time, but neither does the army. At the moment we're a little trapped, and I wonder what we can do. Perhaps we should try to find the stairs, but I'm not sure.

Finally something occurs to me.

"Perhaps the timeline is jostled," I say slowly.

Frodo looks up at me expectantly, and I hold up a hand.

"There's definitely something wrong, but I'm not sure what it is." I feel something different in the air suddenly; I hope it's either the army or Smeagol. Things certainly haven't been going the way I planned thus far, or how Tolkien planned I suppose.

Then I hear a familiar shout . . . a familiar response, although more muffled than I expected . . . and a horn. The Black Gate jostles and begins to open.

Frodo leaps up, and I follow. Sam is a little slower to react, but isn't far behind. Then, as I clear the space ahead of Frodo, I grab his chest and shove him back.

"Get down, get down!" I hiss. Frodo ducks behind the same boulder, and I drag Sam down with us. The gate is open, but this time there's an army coming out.

I shake my head. "It'll be a miracle if we can get through there." I lick my lip, thinking if Iorhael or the rope could help, but there's no way. I could fight off maybe one before I got bowled and maimed by the rest.

Frodo's brow furrows as he studies the soldiers marching out, but it appears that he can't think of anything better than blind courage either. The group of soldiers meets up with a huge group of orc-drawn wagons, and I note that there are supplies inside: bread. Maggoty bread, probably, that the orcs were talking about in the Two Towers film. I snicker sourly in spite of myself.

Frodo turns to Sam. "Stay here and watch Minah," he says urgently, turning back to look towards the Black Gate, but at the way he swallows I'm certain he doesn't want to go in alone.

I grab his shoulder. "Frodo, I'm not just going to watch you get captured and killed."

Frodo doesn't look back at me, and I'm frustrated at that. "You may have to. Perhaps I should leave the Ring with you."

"It's not worth the sacrifice if it does nothing!" I insist. A stark image of Frodo impaled on the end of one of the soldier's long pikes snaps through my mind, and I bite back a whimper. "Don't go; we'll find a way to get in, all of us."

Frodo moves to shake his head, but I leap up first. "If you go, I draw their attention. I should be the distraction anyway."

"Minah, you promised!" Frodo grabs my wrist and yanks me back down. "All right. If we need to get into Mordor, I suppose leaving you behind isn't exactly what you'll let me do."

I smile and grab his hand, rubbing my fingers over his knuckles. "Not really."

He grows solemn, and I follow suit. We all turn towards the Black Gate; the guards are beginning to file inside.

"Now!" Frodo exclaims. The hobbits successfully leap forward, but an arm wraps solidly around my waist and yanks me back down to the rock.

"Smeagol, what are you doing?!" I cry.

Smeagol shakes his head. "Keep the Precious! Don't take it back to him; he wants it! He _wants_ it to come back!" Smeagol's eyes grow intent, and his fingers trace my neck to find the Ring, which isn't on me. I shudder, backing away from him, but he follows. "It must stay far away from nasty orcses, Precious."

"Smeagol, let her go," Frodo insists. "If it's the Precious you want, I have it now."

The creature spins around to stare up at Frodo, then scrambles away from me. Frodo steps over the stone, grabbing my arm. He turns to take me to the Black Gate—I anticipate this change in attitude—but before we can go far, Smeagol grabs my ankle and yanks me back again.

"Master!" I jolt when Smeagol addresses Frodo this way, but I suppose he does it often enough that it shouldn't worry me. Somehow I can't help but hear him address the Ring rather than Frodo whenever he considers a position of power that way. "Master, you mustn't go! He will see!"

Frodo stills, flicking his gaze to me. "He will see everything," Frodo mutters.

I glare at him; he can't be making this decision on my account. What if we're more successful going through the Black Gate?

But Smeagol convinces him not to go. I already told Frodo the danger of going, and I hope he's evaluating this according to what he thinks is right, not what he thinks will keep me from danger the longest.

The next problem, then, is how to get around Faramir. Smeagol's betrayal will likely cut all of us deeply, and I don't want him to anyway: we could use his help getting with Shelob.

My head slacks back; can't I just let affairs fly as they will?

Not really. Not when I can do something; would I be taking care of Frodo like he feels he needs thus far if I let it go now?

Again . . . not really.

Frodo never snaps at Sam, and I must admit that I'm surprised. Of course, how can I not be? Everything's shocking me, only to turn out the way it did originally. Except for this business with the Ring; it must be leading up to something.

But that means Frodo will still refuse his quest.

He asks me once what's wrong, but I can't dishearten him so. Maybe when we get closer to Mordor . . . or perhaps his conviction will never harden and I'll have to tell him while he can still feel pain too easily.

Smeagol helps Frodo a great deal, fills up his waterskin whenever he drinks from it, brings . . . well, he brings mice once in a while. He says they're not as "delectable as crunchable birdses," but he anticipates Frodo swallowing them whole.

The hobbit is getting exhausted far faster, exponentially now. I carry him sometimes, I fear for him often, I offer to hold the Ring sometimes. He waves it off distantly, insisting he can take it. Then he'll smile up at me weakly, tell me something about how he's glad I'm with him, or perhaps something about his mother.

That only troubles me more; I feel like more of his emotional weight is on my back now. I don't know how much more of this understanding, this pressure, I can carry.

One day Smeagol brings back conies, and I realize he must have kicked Gollum right out of himself. He's proud of himself, tries to get Frodo to eat the rabbits. Frodo glances up at me hopefully, and I nod; we had a long talk last night, and I fell asleep with him curled up in my lap. I sat up most of the night, and he wants me to rest. He told me Smeagol takes care of him, and that I need not worry so much.

But based on how Smeagol cracks into the dead animal, I'm pretty sure Frodo still needs to be looked after.

Sam finally yanks the conies from Smeagol and makes his stew, but I manage to set aside a few pieces for Smeagol. He doesn't complain for a longer moment yet.

While Frodo and Sam are preparing the food, I stand off by the packs. I'm perfectly still, until I hear an unnatural warbling. My ears perk, and I turn to follow it.

Then I remember what that is.

I turn back. "Frodo, Sam! Eat quickly; we have to go."

Frodo scrambles to his feet. "What is it?"

I point to the distance. "There's an army of Sauron headed for Mordor," I babble. "And men of Gondor behind them." He moves to investigate, but I hold up a hand. My voice drops to a hiss. "Frodo, if you go now, you risk the quest, Smeagol's loyalty, and your progress on this mission as a whole."

He gives me a blank stare; he's calculating, I imagine, but I wouldn't have picked that up from his expression alone.

"Shouldn't I know what I'm fighting against?" he says quietly.

I step aside. "The decision has always been yours, Frodo. I will not counsel beyond what I have said, and I will not argue with you."

He crosses his arms. "I've noticed."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

Frodo glances at the ground. "Minah, sometimes I wonder if I don't know what's best for myself . . . but you might know pieces of this story." His stare comes back up, almost excited in a revelatory sort of way. I honestly don't understand him. "Wouldn't you sacrifice obeying me to keep me safe?"

"Is that what you wish me to do?"

He sighs, flicking his gaze around. "No. I wish you to be you . . . be what you are! Don't be what I tell you." He walks up to me and points at me; I back away, suddenly intimidated. "There's something far deeper than what I see. I thought I could figure you out, but—but I can't, not if you let me do what I will."

I kneel down. "Well, if I'm like your mother, what do you think is underneath?"

The warble sounds again, and Frodo dashes after it. I exasperatedly grab Iorhael and pursue him through the low forest; hobbits are so much better at this, sneaking around places, especially in trees that are shorter and underbrush and things.

Before the oliphaunts come, I drag Frodo and Sam away from the cliff's edge. Smeagol slinked away before, but as we look for him I hear the warble again, closer this time.

"Come on," I whisper. "He'll get himself out of this, but we must go."

Frodo actually listens to me this time, and we dash out. But then I hear an unmistakable wail behind me, and a cry for Master.

"Smeagol!" Frodo calls out. Smeagol screams louder, and men start charging at us through the forest.

"Frodo, run!" I insist. We barrel through the woods, although Frodo continually looks back, as though he can do anything. I drag the hobbits to a crevice of rock in a nearby hill and shove them inside.

"Stay here. I'm going back for Smeagol."

Before I can really turn back, Frodo grabs my hand and yanks me back down. I stare up at him, ready to debate my way through this: I'm not going to let him go after Faramir. After a moment with his mouth locked open, he seems to see that.

He reaches up to whisper in my ear, and his lips touch there faintly. I shiver. "You can go if you're careful . . . and as long as you come back for me."

Before I can answer, he pulls back and peers into my eyes briefly, as though asking for permission. I don't know what he wants, but I'm fairly sure I would give it to him. He reaches forward then and softly—but deeply—kisses my cheek. I inhale sharply, allowing my breath to escape slowly at his touch. His lips are amazingly tender, and when he parts from me I find myself missing the warmth of it already.

I reach forward and rub his shoulder. "I'll be careful. I promise."

He nods, memory flooding his eyes. I will not betray him, I swear. I turn to find the archers and follow the archers, tracking the landscape around me as I go. I only hope I can locate them and still forge my way back.

The archers aren't as much for stealth as they were before the attack, I suppose. I hear them conversing darkly when I race back to the place where we lost Smeagol. Of course, his screams are also enough to draw me in, but soon after I begin following those they come to an abrupt halt. I growl to myself; if they hurt him anymore I'm going to have words with them from sword to sword.

Assuming I can innately use a sword, which I can't.

So much for that idea, I realize as I approach their group. By this point it's late afternoon, and I think they won't get to their fortress by the Forbidden Pool until tomorrow evening at the earliest, or so I can hope.

I don't manage to catch up to them until they do reach their fortress, however, which only takes about half the night. I'm not a strategist, so I don't assemble too much of a plan: run inside, avoid as many guards as possible (hopefully with help from my Lorien cloak), tell Smeagol where Frodo is, and attempt to break out alongside him. But I don't count on that last bit: I'm sure Faramir won't kill me, and I can get back to Frodo in Osgiliath, assuming Smeagol leads them that way. But I don't think I can run fast or quietly enough, and Smeagol is my priority right now.

While I sneak along the walls, I listen for Smeagol's screams. I can't hear them anywhere yet . . . and then I press my ear up against a huge slab of rock. Finally I hear his voice piercing the air, and I race around the block of stone. I growl to myself; they're throwing Smeagol around, slamming him against the wall, kicking him.

I decide to wait and break him out until Smeagol cries out once again.

"Master! Help us!"

Somehow I don't take it very well: perhaps I'm just too much of a nurturer archetype, or maybe I care too much about Frodo, but I suddenly step out from behind the stone into plain sight.

"Leave him alone!"

The guards halt and look up at me. Faramir's eyes are set in a studious glare, and he nods to them. They throw Smeagol to the ground, and before I can say anything more they reach forward to grab my hands. I lock my fingers around the hilt of Iorhael and draw it; I get a collective protest from the men, and I realize that this was a bad move.

I drop to one knee and hold out my sword, discarding the rest of my stick.

"Please, Captain Faramir." I don't dare look up, but the men have stopped. "I am a friend of your brother Boromir, and I am sent with my companions on a quest to Mordor to stop the Dark Lord by infiltration." I'm blabbering now, but I don't have any better ideas. My face burns as feet slowly approach me. "I need you to release Smeagol; he is our companion and guide. Take my weapon if you will, but release him."

A hand takes my sword, and I sink back onto both knees. A strong finger tips up my chin, and I stare into the murky green eyes of Faramir. As all others, he looks different; he terrifies me. He looks too much like his brother.

"Boromir," he calls back into the cave. "Is this indeed a friend of yours?"

My eyes widen when Boromir, living and breathing although he has bandages wrapped all about him, steps into view. He limps and one of his hands is missing three fingers, but he's alive. He smiles grimly when he sees me.

His voice trembles with exhaustion. "This is Minah."

Faramir grows interested, and he nods to me. He hands me back my sword. Boromir quickly limps past him and offers a hand to me, bringing me off the ground. I can't really react for how shocked I am, and how I have to process how to get out of here.

"Minah, it's good to see you!" He wraps me tightly in his arms, and I nearly squeak for how he nearly cuts of my ability to breathe. I embrace him back, gently patting his shoulder before he lets me go.

A shocked smile rises to my face. "How . . . how did you survive? The orcs . . ."

Boromir shakes his head. "I know not. They took two of the halflings and wounded me greatly in the process. I suppose I began crawling towards home. I apologize for what happened; I feel the Ring bewitched me. But in truth I do not love you."

I nod quickly, grateful he came to reason. "Indeed. Please, Boromir, listen to me: Frodo, Samwise and I are headed for Mordor. But our guide, Smeagol, was captured and brought here. Let him go, and the halflings will accompany me to destroy the Ring."

Boromir's brow furrows. "No, it's far too dangerous a task for someone like you."

My jaw drops as I survey him this time. "Boromir! Too dangerous for me?! What about them? They're . . . they're . . . they're half my size!"

"They've learned the ways of the world," he insists. "They are meant to bear this form of burden. Frodo volunteered himself, and you were dragged into it."

I cross my arms. "So maybe I'm a stereotypical woman, but even so I'm there to protect them! Frodo and I have each other's backs; he could be killed if I let him go up alone." I pause, glancing down at Smeagol. He doesn't look sinister—as a matter of fact, when our eyes meet, he scurries on all fours to crouch, shivering, behind me.

Boromir shakes his head. "I'm afraid I can't let you take that risk, Minah."

 _Oh, for the love of all things brave and valiant; can't you just not be chivalrous for a moment?!_

"You'll have to come with us. I'm unable to fight, and so I can be around to protect you," Boromir continues.

I throw my hands in the air. This is ridiculous.

"Prepare a horse for her," Boromir orders, and a man in the corner scurries off. Boromir turns back to me and slips his hand around mine; his eyes shimmer, and one of my eyebrows shoots straight up. "We ride to Minas Tirith; Faramir, you know what to do at Osgiliath."

Faramir agrees and turns to continue preparations. Boromir grabs my hand to show me where I am to sleep, and I turn frantically back to Smeagol.

"Go find Frodo," I hiss. "Take him into Mordor; tell him I'm fine. He's in a crevice with Sam, due east of here and a little bit north of where you were captured." Smeagol opens his mouth, but I push him away. "Go, now!"

As Smeagol disappears from sight, Boromir helps the other men to block the entryway with a metal gate. My eyes roll, and I glance back at the cave wall. My irritated spirit drifts to one of remorse.

 _Frodo, I'm so sorry._

 **Like Minah, I am sorry: I will not be updating this Saturday because I will be in Boise at an academic competition. I will update next week, probably not until Saturday, but I may get two updates up next week. Thanks so much for reading, especially to those that have reviewed! I promise, there will be more Baymax! I appreciate your patience. :)**


	18. I Love You, at Long Last

**Diem Kieu: Thanks! Yeah; I thought about what twists I was going to stick in here, and decided I could be awkward about it if I wanted to. XD! Yeah, pretty much . . . :D Thanks so much! After two weeks here's a chapter for you. DFTYA!**

 **Jayla Fire Gal: :D Yup. Boromir had one job-XD Thanks, I appreciate it! :) Hope you like this one too! Although sadly it is short . . . :P**

 **Me And Not You 1001: Thanks; you're awesome too. I'll come read your story, I promise! Might not be tonight, though; I'm uploading in the morning for a reason. XD Yes! Torture the characters! Thank you!**

Today is a blur. I'm not willing to focus; I don't pay attention, but only to events. I'm placed on a horse, a dark one, and taken with Boromir and a handful of soldiers towards Osgiliath. They attempt to make conversation with me—I think—but I have no thought to respond. I'm still thinking about Frodo, hoping he'll forgive me for not coming back.

But I did what I could.

Would he tell me not to go? Mostly I'm guilt-ridden, and I just miss him, miss having that little hobbit by my side, miss those smiles he would give me whenever I said something jocose, the strength of such a small, humble creature. I even miss how condescending he is sometimes; so it isn't ideal, but no one is, and now that I care about him, I find his every move endearing in some way. I mean, he's a hobbit, so it's easy . . . but he's so guileless. Nothing he does has hurtful or malicious intent.

I want to spend the rest of my life with somebody like that.

I lurch at the thought. My eyes sink shut; I can't afford to think that way, not now.

But my thoughts wander constantly to Frodo, playing with the idea of at least living on his lawn, or in the next house over, or even in Bree so long as I can spend time with him. And I know he hasn't quite been himself since before I came, but I still love him, everything he stands for.

I bury my face in my hands. He thinks of me like his mother; this is ridiculous.

We camp that night and Boromir tries to "keep me warm"; I'm sure he doesn't mean to do more than hold me, but I tell him I'm fine, as a matter of fact I'm too warm as it is. I slip away from the campfire and take off my cloak by my side . . . but in truth I'm freezing now. Despite that I don't want to change my mind.

I stare up at the stars, wondering if Frodo will be all right. He's going to run into Shelob, although hopefully Smeagol will at least try to help him through that ordeal. Maybe I don't need to look after him; he's probably well off. I try to convince myself that he's fine.

While I sit out there, I start singing. I sing "Into the West," because I don't know what's going to happen to us all.

I don't hit the first chorus, luckily enough for my very-much-not-soprano voice, before I hear a rustle behind me. I spin around, scrambling to my feet. There's a small bush behind me, not much more than a scraggly sapling, and I can tell there's something behind it.

My heart races when I grab Iorhael, and I quickly unsheath the sword.

"Who's there?!"

No response more than a whisper.

I turn back, unsure what I'm up against here. I start to go back, but then whatever is behind the bush leaps out and tackles me to the ground.

"Boromir!" I cry, but then a familiar set of bony fingers covers my mouth.

"Soft one must be quiet!" Smeagol hisses. My eyes widen, and he peels his hand away from my lips.

My head tilts hard. "Smeagol, you were supposed to go back for Fro—,"

Two more shapes appear in the blackness. Frodo reaches out for my hand.

"Frodo," I whisper. I mount to my knees with my walking stick, and I embrace him carefully. I can't see his expression, but I have no doubt this experience will change some things . . . I can only hope not for the worse.

Frodo hugs me back, but he lets out a powerful sigh. I wait for him to say something, but no words come out.

"Frodo, I'm sorry."

Frodo shakes his head against my shoulder. He perks up a moment later, and I hear Boromir rallying his troops. I stand abruptly, and Smeagol leaps away, towards what I think is the north. Sam follows him, and Frodo drags me along after them. I sheath my sword awkwardly as we run. When it finally locks in place I can run faster, and I start taking Frodo forward now.

I hear shouts behind us, and I urge Smeagol to keep going. I try to get Frodo off of me, but he's adamant about staying, to the extent that he tells me if either of us are going to be caught it'll be him.

I run faster after that.

Smeagol takes us through the night, beyond the glowing, white city of Minas Tirith. The full, golden moon ascending the mountains behind it make the city eerie. It's not white now. I wonder if that spells anything for Gondor.

When we break the line of the city, we stop to rest by the massive, granite exterior wall. Smeagol isn't much worse for wear—although his breath rattles. Sam's lungs heave, and he sits down rather abruptly. Frodo is breathing heavily as well, but when I slack to the ground exhausted, he remains standing. He shakes his head, staring down at me.

"Minah . . ." He sounds hurt, and I'm suddenly afraid. He throws his hands in the air. "Minah, why?" He kneels down, but he doesn't near me at all. "I told you to come back."

"Frodo, I have a perfectly good reason—," I start.

Frodo shakes his head. The moon only makes this worse; I wish to be unable to see him. He looks a little distanced; he probably knows he can't invest anything in me, really, not if his life is on the line as it is.

"I don't need to know," he says softly. He turns, glancing up into the light. Then he hesitates, and his eyes turn back to me. "Or perhaps I do. I suppose I'm not sure what to think."

"They took me," I insist. "I didn't mean to break my promise, and I will never break it again." I swallow as his eyes sink shut, and he rubs the ridge of his nose between his fingers. I don't try anymore; it hurts a little too much. "If you don't trust me—Frodo, I'm not asking you to trust me." I swallow a lump in my throat as I realize what I want to say. "I don't need you to trust me; I just need you not to push me away because . . ." I bite my lip: I can't finish.

A silence of perhaps ten minutes passes by. My gaze flickers anywhere it can without too much movement of my head, and Frodo stares distantly at some place on my arm, or perhaps a spot of wall behind me. The only sounds are the light snoring of Sam and Smeagol some feet away. The pressure of the silence is one I can't carry much longer; my eyes prickle. I don't know what to do.

Finally he breathes deeply and kneels down in front of me. He gently braces my jaw up. Tears prick at my eyes and slide down against the ridge of my nose.

"Because what?" he says.

I reach up abruptly and squeeze him tightly. My voice is muffled in his curls, and I almost wonder if it's because I'm afraid to let him know. "Because I love you."

Frodo stiffens where I hold him, and I give him a minute to process before I take a small pace back. I bite my lip again; I can't say anything more for fear of tripping over my own words.

"Good night," I manage. "Please don't send me away; I know I don't always do what you think is the right thing, but everything I do is for you."

Frodo's gaze flickers to the ground. I lie down and turn over, shifting uncomfortably in my cloak as I have no idea what to do. My eyes squeeze shut; I really hope I haven't lost him. And I really hope I never have to.

I allow my breathing to grow deep and even. Eventually I almost fall asleep, but it doesn't sound like he's stirred. I linger on the border of rest for a little while, unsure why I can't manage to fall asleep without his head on my lap, without sifting my fingers comfortably through his dark, long curls . . . without feeling him stir under my hands.

His fingers settle on my cloak, and it takes all I have not to jolt. He leans over me, flattening his chest against my shoulders. His cheek settles on mine, and faint tingles travel through my face when his skin shifts there.

Frodo turns just enough that I feel his lips move, in that distant sort of way when I know they're close but not quite against me. "I love you too. I won't send you away, but—I don't want you to leave me again." His cheek rubs fully against mine, and he slides to the side until he's kissing my cheek. He tenderly traces the hair back from my face, and soon he backs away.

I shiver; my back is so cold. I curl harder into my cloak and wonder if Frodo feels like this sometimes.


	19. The Stairs

**GiGi Babineaux: Hey, thanks! And welcome! :D**

 **tadah2: Sorry about that. XD This happens to be my only present-tense LotR story, sadly. :D**

 **Me and Not You 1001: :D Thanks so much! Weellllll . . . a lot of them will have at least a dash of angst in them. But there is more fluff to come, I promise! The last two chapters and the sequel chapter should have enough to satisfy. I think. O.o And I got that reference. ;)**

 **Jayla Fire Gal: Ja. O.O Is crazy! I guess we'll have to see when he confesses back . . .**

 **Diem Kieu: XD That's fantastic. Thanks; you too! "For Frodo!" DFTYA!**

Frodo says nothing about it the next day, but I feel my face once in a while and realize I'm blushing. I avoid looking at anyone, but inherently continue walking next to Frodo.

Smeagol takes us around the burning city of Osgiliath, across the small river that will lead to the mountains of Mordor. I carry Sam across and turn back for Frodo, but he's already trying to wade his way across. The river's up to my waist, and thus sweeps around his shoulders.

I reach down and drag him out.

"You could have stayed dry," I point out.

He shrugs. "It is a tad warm out here, don't you think?" I frown to myself as he walks away; I wonder if he's acting strange. Now my mind is fuzzy and colored from last night, and I can't decide what's normal and what's caution and what's love . . . no one ever said things like this were easy, especially not across races and certainly not across worlds.

But it does happen.

Frodo seems weaker and the landscape harsher now, as we approach the thin, ghost-like forest on the slopes of the Ash Mountains. The hobbit certainly isn't in horrid condition, but he's being worn down by the Ring. I don't ask to carry it; I don't think I can carry it, and I'm worried about getting attached. Even from this distance I feel it growing stronger.

While we walk through the forests below the Ash Mountains, my mind wanders. I walk by Frodo's side, holding him up after I decide that he might be hurting enough to let me help. He does, numbly. It's less a possessiveness that he expresses and more a growign sorrow, disbelief, perhaps. He throws off my concerns most of the time, tells me he's all right. I would recall specifics, or set them aside, but it happens so often.

While we walk, I realize Sam hasn't said anything to Frodo about being put into songs or tales, and his speech didn't occur. I'm a little hearbroken at that: can't I just quit ruining things?

"I don't know if this truly happens, but . . . but you two deserve to be put into songs and stories of future generations," I blurt.

Frodo stares up at me. "What?"

I look to Sam to take over the line. He obviously doesn't know what to do, but after a minute his brain starts to work hard. I ask him while he's thinking what they would say about Frodo, and then he's all over it. "They would say he was real courageous . . . the most famousest and wisest of hobbits . . . which is saying a lot!"

I take that opportunity to make an interjection. I rub his shoulder. "You know what else they'd say . . . I think they'd sing about his strength, about how he persevered through everything . . . how he destroyed the Ring in the end, and how he loved and cared for his friends more than anything."

While I speak I squeeze his shoulders, and he blushes darkly. I nudge him; playful as I hope to seem, I mean it.

"They'll tell more stories than we can count about Mr. Frodo," Sam continues, proud of his friend.

"And what about Sam?" I question, but Frodo doesn't pick up on it. He looks up at me encouragingly, but I want him to say it. He doesn't pick up on my nudges to speak, so I inhale slowly and go for it. "Samwise the Brave, the comrade and guide of Frodo Baggins. Frodo wouldn't have gone far without Sam, would he?"

Sam blushes this time. "I thank you, Miss Minah, but I think Mr. Frodo would have gotten on well on his own. I'm just here to help."

"Now, Sam," Frodo chides, "you've done more than just help. She's right; they would say that Frodo couldn't have gone far without Sam." Then his gaze flickers up to me. "But you've left out one of the chief characters. Minah, the intelligent, soft, caring guide . . ." His hands rise from my waist to my shoulder, tracing up to my neck. "Frodo wouldn't _want_ to go far without Minah."

I can't imagine how he can possibly see me that way, and I almost feel uncomfortable letting him tell me that, but I suppose love can blind anyone. I decide to quote Sam's line anyway.

"Frodo, you can't make fun," I say. "I was being serious."

Frodo puts a hand just below my collarbone, pushing me to a halt. I blink uncertainly as he wraps his hand around mine, bringing it to his mouth. His soft lips brush against my knuckles. "So was I," he whispers against my skin. He squeezes my hand and lets it fall, then nonchalantly turns to keep walking.

I hear Sam up ahead: "Imagine . . . Samwise the Brave . . ."

The Ring is certainly taking over Frodo. He grows cold so much more often now, and he's becoming more solemn even after that conversation where he seemed so gentle and lighthearted.

Smeagol isn't comforting either. As a matter of fact, he keeps sneaking glances at me.

I don't think he'll betray Frodo—and then I hear him conversing with Gollum again.

"We must finds the Precious for ourselves," he hisses. I stiffen in place, then glance over at Sam: the hobbit isn't awakie. I think we should be fine as long as Sam doesn't wake up, because I know things will be all right.

"Kill the hobbitses." His voice lowers.

"Yes . . . up, up, up the stairs we go! We gets rid of the fat one . . ."

The conversation goes as expected. Until he gets to picking through the bones and empty clothes, of course.

"Then we finds the soft one at the bottom of the stairs, yes . . . sends her after nasty Elvish food." He shudders. "And I thought orcses tasted nasty, Precious. Master will be eaten, Precious is ours, soft one is dead!" He cackles, and Sam shuffles, rolling over to quietly get up.

I grab his ankle. "Sam, no!"

Sam turns, his eyes wild. He protests against my hold; I wince when I realize just how hard this must be for him.

"Minah, he's going to kill us!"

I put a hand on Sam's shoulder. "Yes, but the Ring is influencing Frodo. To act now would be to raise his suspicions against you." I coax him back into a sitting position. "Please, Sam. There's nothing you can do to Gollum now."

After a short discussion of basically that same thing over and over, Sam uncomfortably decides to go back to sleep. But even as he lies there, I wonder if I should have let things play out. But that's what I'm doing, aren't I? Simply reducing the tension between Frodo and Sam?

Not really.

I sit up; I can't sleep anymore. Smeagol heard us whispering, I suppose, and has dropped off to feigned sleep on a small rock ledge. Or perhaps he truly is sleeping; he's muttering to himself, so I wonder if that's the case.

It takes a few minutes for me to begin dozing, but my eyes are still a little open. I suppose I'm so unsettled that, tired as I am, I don't _want_ to fall asleep; I want to fix things. But I can't, and I shouldn't—I've fixed enough, and I know regret looms on the horizon. But somehow regret and the chance for it don't sink into me that well.

My eyes flicker open when a light pressure comes to my side and rests on my lap. Frodo sidles against me, and I lift my arm to allow him in.

"You said Smeagol betrayed me," Frodo says softly. Then he shifts uncomfortably, and I stiffen. "Why didn't you let Sam stop him?"

I wriggle a little; I can't tell if he feels betrayed. He's so hard to analyze, and it's hard for me to deal with. He looks up at me expectantly, and I hope he just wants to know what would have happened if I didn't.

So I decide to tell him everything; I see no harm in it. "When he awoke to Gollum in the story I know, he attacked the creature and, well, you didn't believe him when he said Gollum betrayed you; Smeagol feigned innocence, and you said you still needed a guide. It ended up opening a lack of trust between you and Sam, and . . . and on the stairs . . ." I sigh, staring at Sam's comfortable little form on the ground. "You sent him home."

Frodo stares up at me. Again, I'm unsure what he's thinking: he looks perplexed, and that's the only word I can think of to describe a single aspect of that complex gaze.

"Why would Smeagol turn on me?"

I hesitate, glancing back at the creature. He mumbles and tosses. "Originally because Faramir captured him after apprehending you and Sam . . . and he beat Gollum—Smeagol, I suppose—until the knowledge of the Ring came forward." I shake my head. "I don't understand why he would now."

Frodo adjusts by my side, wrapping my cloak around him. It's about then that I realize his skin is freezing, and I pull him up onto my lap. "Regardless, we can't get rid of him now." Frodo's voice trembles; he shivers harder. "We need to get to Mordor quickly."

I squeeze him tightly and lay his head on my neck. "It's getting worse, isn't it?"

"Yes."

I don't ask what it feels like; I already know. I whisper to him that I'm sorry, over and over as his silent tears coat my skin. It must be agonizing now, not having time to adjust with how long I carried the Ring. He shakes his head for the first little while, but when he begins to warm up he falls asleep at last.

By the next morning he hasn't psychologically recovered, or so it seems. His eyes are red and raw; his every step drags as though his feet are iron bricks. Soon, in fact, his feet are dragging along the dirt and mud so much that his feet no longer leave prints, but long shuffle lines.

"Frodo, do you want me to carry you?"

He throws it off every time I ask. I feel sick for him; luckily, he at least hangs onto my arm whenever I bring up that perhaps he ought not to walk for himself. Smeagol grows more civil towards Frodo, but certainly not towards Sam. He can't stand the other hobbit, I fear. I wonder what he'll do to Sam; I decide I should stay awake as often as possible while we're on the stairs. Heaven knows what trick he'll pull.

The days grow darker quickly as we approach Minas Morgul. Again, I've never seen Frodo possessive of the Ring up until this point, just weighed down and sorrowed. I try to comfort him, but he won't tell me anything, won't express himself. I'd just chalk it up to his character—to male creatures in general—but then why would he confide in me earlier and not now? Perhaps the pain is too much now.

Dragging along, we make it through five quiet, dark days before we're surrounded by the green-black, slimy stone of Mordor. My boots are no longer black, but faded gray with splotches of mud and the slime of whatever covers all of this rock.

Minas Morgul is rather predictable, although traumatizing for me in the moment. Frodo's scar chills him there, but he cries out louder than I expected, and I hold him in an attempt to cut off the cold. That works only to an extent; truthfully when that cursed Nazgul finally shuts his mouth Frodo feels better. He still looks on the brink of crashing to pieces on the inside, however, and I urge him up the stairs after Smeagol.

We climb quickly; I don't know what drives Frodo to move so fast, but I know I'm deathly afraid of any of us tumbling over backwards. It's such a long fall, and a steep staircase; I get tingles up my back and through my arms while I ascend, and sweat pricks at my limbs. I pray over and over, every time I shakily grab another rock or slip my toes into another foothold, that somehow some miracle will get us all to the top alive; I'll think about beyond that later.

The first ledge we come to is not where we decide to rest; there's another one some distance above us, and Frodo says we should press on. I move to refuse—and it appears that Sam does as well—but then Frodo stares right at me. His eyes water, and he clutches, agonized, at his neck. I bite my lip and nod. Not only do I love him, and not only is it hard to watch this, but I know he wants this burden gone as soon as possible.

Frodo shivers, exhaustedly grateful from what I can gather, and continues up.

Then I hear an exclamation of surprise behind me, and I turn around. Sam has disappeared from off the ledge.

"Sam!" I leap over the ledge, back down onto the stairs, and jar my foot. I suck in a breath at the sudden pain, but then I spot Sam writhing on one of the stairs. His leg is twisted the wrong way, and he's breathing heavily. I glance up, only to find a shoulder blade-sized rock tumbling down the side of the cliff after him.

I call out his name again, leaping down. I shove him out of the way, and the rock cracks against my arm. A cry escapes my mouth at the crushing pain. Luckily the boulder bounces off, or I might have initially thrown it at someone: it hurts dreadfully, and I'm surprised I haven't blacked out.

Despite that, I can still walk. Frodo races down to my side; Smeagol is nowhere to be found, and I have no doubt he's ahead waiting. I lift Sam with my good arm, wincing and groaning slightly.

"Are you all right?" Frodo asks hurriedly. He faintly strokes my sleeve, and tingles spread across my bruising, broken skin. My shirt is soon soaked with blood. I ease Sam into my arms, gingerly lifting his broken leg over one arm. Frodo lets out a pained sigh, staring at Sam's leg. "Oh, Sam . . ."

Sam manages a response: his eyes are squeezed shut, and his voice is raspy. "I'll be fine, Mr. Frodo." He sucks in a breath, reaching for his leg.

"We'll have to splint it," I admit. My arm is growing shaky; I won't be able to hold Sam much longer. "Come on; let's get a little farther."

It's agonizing to take Sam up—the crushed skin on my arm protests, as though it's about to rip into little pieces with the pressure. Frodo carries Iorhael, and as a matter of fact seems assisted by it. He walks faster, but Sam and I drag far behind. Frodo waits on the uppermost ledge for us, the one we'd originally planned to sleep on. I give a great heave of breath and lay Sam down on his back, against the rock.

"Sam, I wish you could black out for this," I manage, staring at his broken limb: his calf is twisted, and I don't know how he's stayed conscious, much less not screamed with pain every second of the climb up.

Sam eyes me, dizzy and afraid. I wince and wrap my fingers around his leg; I have no idea how to do this, but I can't leave it twisted. I crack it back into place, and Sam . . . I can't describe it. It isn't a protest, and it's a thousand times as pained and desperate as a scream. Frodo buckles against my stick, and abruptly slacks against the ground: I suppose watching his best friend break like that coupled with his exhaustion and all the other angst piling within him.

I feel like blacking out as well, staring down with heaving breath at the now straight leg in my hands. I cup Sam's face; sweat pours down his cheeks, and a whimper escapes him.

"I'm so sorry," I manage. "I promise, I'll look after you."

He nods hurriedly; he's exhausted, and I wish he could fall asleep while I rip off both of my sleeves, then turn to look for a tree of any sort. Smeagol slinks in about then, and I ask him desperately if he can find a long stick or a long board of some kind. He vanishes immediately.

I glance back down at Sam; he's still sweating, but he's breathing easier.

"Miss Minah," he whispers. "Look after Mr. Frodo."

I sigh. "Sam, you're not dying," I insist. "It'll be all right."

Sam breathes shakily, feigning relief, or so it sounds. "If death feels any worse than this, I don't fancy I'll enjoy it, Miss Minah."

I chuckle slightly. "It'll be all right," I insist.

Smeagol doesn't return quickly, and I decide to resort to what I can. I pour through Frodo and Sam's packs, and when Frodo awakens I ask him if there's anything I can use as a splint. He says he has no idea what I'm talking about.

"Sam's leg is broken," I say. "And if we want it to heal . . . well, I can't say it'll heal perfectly, because I've never done this before. But we need something long and solid that'll line up his leg so I can tie it down."

Frodo glances at my walking stick.

"Shorter than that," I say.

Frodo's eyes roll back slightly in consideration, and then he reaches for Sam's pack. He slips out a frying pan and offers it to me. It's not ideal, I suppose, but until we find something better it's really all we have.

I wrap the frying pan against Sam's calf with my sleeves, but it's not enough fabric. I reach into Sam's pack and grab the Elvish rope, tying his leg solidly to the splint. I hope I don't need another one to balance the other side or anything. I lay Sam's cloak over him and peck the top of his head, admonishing him to get some sleep if he can.

"We should probably stay until Sam has healed," I say, settling back against the rock. "I can carry him, but it'll slow our progress."

"At least it would be progress."

I want to drill to Frodo that he's being insensitive, but I realize he just wants to save the world and get Sam to a real healer, probably.

"After all, the sooner we get out of Mordor, the sooner we can get him out of here," Frodo adds, but he doesn't sound hasty about it, rather practical. I admit to myself that it isn't like Frodo not to care. Then he pauses. "Perhaps you and Sam should stay here, or turn back."

I stiffen. "No! Frodo, I didn't come this far with you just to let you go on alone!"

Frodo shakes his head. "No, you didn't, but I didn't come here to get Sam's leg broken, or to leave either of you." His gaze rises to meet mine. "It's for the best, I think."

"You're not abandoning us," I insist. "You can try, but we'll just follow you."

Frodo pauses. "Of course you will," he says, his voice softened. He reaches forward, caressing my cheek. "All right. Wait here until Sam's better; you're right."

I certainly didn't expect him to adhere, and now I'm flabbergasted.

"That'll give you some time to rest as well," I say. "And if you'd like, I'll carry the Ring until we're ready to move on." It isn't until that last word is out of my mouth that I realize I've made a huge mistake: that's exactly, pretty much, what Sam said in the film, and I've let it slip. I cover my lips. "Frodo, I'm so sorry."

Frodo shakes his head. "No; I can take it." He yawns widely and settles against my cloak, eventually laying his cheek against my lap. I sigh; there's nothing I want more than this moment right now, and I trace his hair back around the shell of his ear.

He falls asleep there, and I kiss his forehead as I drift off. I don't know how long we'll have to stay, but I decide I'll carry Sam to the best of my ability.

He would want it on Frodo's behalf.

 _I dream we're standing on the shores of the Grey Havens. I'm sitting and watching; Frodo stands level with me, and his hand is on my cheek. He caresses my skin softly._

 _"_ _I have to go." I want to protest, but I haven't the voice to do so. He reaches forward and kisses my cheek again, for what is perhaps the last time. "Goodbye, Minah. I love you."_

 _I want to cry out; I want to say his name, want to hear my name on his tongue one more time even if he just said it._

"Minah!"

When my eyes flash open, the weight on my lap is gone, and Sam is over me, his broken leg stretched back and away from him.

I grab his shoulders. "What is it?"

"It's Mr. Frodo!" Sam cries. "He's gone!"

 **Whoa! Just realized we only have two or three chapters left. O.o Thanks for all the reviews, and all the favorites and followers willing to stick with the story! :) I hope you enjoy the rest.**


	20. What a Hobbit Cannot

**Jayla Fire Gal: Thanks! :) Yeah, had to have some angst in there, and some AU going on. But romance in this chapter! :D Sort of!**

 **GiGi Babineaux: Yup. XD Thanks so much! I hope you like! I will say it gets worse before it gets better . . . but you probably guessed that from the story. But we're going to weave some other stuff into it *cough* sappiness *cough***

 **Me And Not You 1001: Pretty much! O.o Well, I won't stand for Gollum in this case, but don't hurt Frodo too much: we're not done with him yet. XD**

 **Scylla's revenge: Hey! Well, thanks for giving this story a shot. :) Yeah, I guess I did kind of get wonky with the title, but I'm glad you checked it out. :) Aw, that gives me the warm fuzzies; I hope you like the rest of the story!**

My eyes widen, and I stand abruptly: Frodo is nowhere to be found. I spin in circles, wishing he would have left behind some kind of clue. Then I notice an etching in the stone; I don't know how he did it, but it's there.

 _I'm going into Mordor alone, like I'm meant to with Smeagol. Please stay until Sam is well enough to travel; then get out of here. Go back to Gondor, get Sam healed and find yourself comfort, perhaps that wonderful, worthy man you were telling me about, the one thing you want. I didn't wish to leave you, but this is a fate I will not force you in to, and won't let you destroy yourself for._

He didn't even sign it. But I can't let him go up to Shelob's lair alone, and I still think Smeagol is planning to betray him.

I turn back to Sam, grabbing his shoulder. "Sam, I . . . oh, Sam, I don't know what to do!" I can't leave this hobbit here, but I will not let Frodo go on with just Smeagol. Besides, if he gets stung by Shelob, the Ring will either be given back to Gollum or taken by orcs. My eyes squeeze shut, and my head slacks.

"There's no time," Sam says urgently. "Go; find Mr. Frodo. Bring him home safe after you destroy the Ring."

My eyes widen, and tears flood them. "Sam, I can't leave you."

"Yes; you have to," he says urgently. "Find Mr. Frodo; do it for me. I'll be fine. I'll be okay, and I'll go back to Gondor. Go! There and back again, Miss Minah!"

After a small grapple, I realize either Sam and I will both die here when the Ring is found and the orcs find us, or we have a slim chance of surviving if I go after Frodo. I leap up in place, thanking him with a solid hug. I grab Iorhael and charge up the stairs; it could very well be too late now.

There actually isn't that much stair left before the tunnel. I can feel the echoes of death and cold inside, something that warns me off. I charge through anyway, yelling Frodo's name. I don't dare look for Smeagol, much less the spider. I don't know where I'm going; it's too dark to recognize anything at all. I smack into the sticky walls on occasion; the gummy, possessive fingers of the string make me shudder.

I don't stop calling for him. When I hear him yelling for Smeagol, a streak of hope ignites in my chest, and I race after it. I crash into walls more often at this rate, but I need to find him. Soon he's yelling against the spider, and I know I don't have much time. I continue to follow, but by the time I stumble across the destroyed wall of web Smeagol has fallen down that cavern outside, according to his loud wail I hear moments later.

"Frodo!"

I leap out of Shelob's tunnel at last, crashing into the side wall. I launch myself to my feet on Iorhael, just in time to hear him manage, "I'm so sorry."

I turn a final corner and see him slap against the ground. His lungs heave in place for a moment, and I leap in front of him. I wait for him to react to his vision, and then I reach down for his hand. He jolts at my touch, and I yank him to his feet. His eyes widen.

"Minah!"

I squeeze him close to me, and he grips my cloak fast. "Minah, I didn't know . . . Smeagol . . . you tried to warn me, but I admit, I didn't believe you . . ."

"It's fine," I assure him. "I'm just glad you're all right." I breathe shakily. "I was worried."

After a moment that I give him to hold me, I yank away and run with him over the paths of rocks. I keep my eyes peeled for Shelob, although attempt to be as silent as Frodo racing through there. He's a lot quieter than I am, but I attribute that to his size. I forget sometimes that he's a different species, although it only makes sense when I consider how amazing he is; he's not really obnoxious enough to be human.

Uncannily—and frighteningly—I never see Shelob. We reach the stairs and are perfectly fine; I can't see her anywhere. I turn to Frodo, about to warn him, when my eyes flicker up to the entrance for the stairs, and I see Shelob's stinger arcing towards me.

I turn abruptly to Frodo. Time slows down as I approach him; his eyes widening in panic accompany my whisper.

"I'm doing this for you."

When I kiss his cheek, the sting jolts against my neck. Poison throbs with the beat of my heart to every corner of my body for a few painful moments. I groan, and a horrid, thick liquid bubbles up in my mouth as I slack to the ground.

My only hope is that Frodo will be safe. He calls out my name before I'm gone.

~0~

The world chills my back, my bare arms, and my legs, from toe to knee. I mumble, assuring myself that I'm still alive, and turn over, only for freezing stone to chill my back. I gasp and shudder, then open my eyes and glance down.

So they haven't taken anything; I'm still wearing the clothes I brought from home, the shirt of which happens to be low in the back and short in the sleeves. My pants are torn at the knees; why I'm not sure.

I'm glad I don't have the Ring.

The room doesn't look familiar when I turn over, but I do have some spider strings on me. I reach down to brush them off, only to find I can't bring my hands from around my back. I struggle against them, but the bindings are obviously thick. I settle against the floor; at least Frodo is all right.

"Minah."

My eyes widen, and my head snaps back as I stare behind me.

"Frodo!" He's there, and they've taken his shirt from him, as well as the mithril. But unlike when I saw him in the film he's hanging from the ceiling by his wrists, and there's a puddle of blood on the floor below his feet. He smiles at me weakly.

"You're alive," he whispers, then strains back with a groan.

I slap the floor with my feet multiple times attempting to get up. I try to launch myself with my hands then, only to collapse on my bad arm.

"Yes; Shelob doesn't sting to kill," I say. Then my eyes widen. "Frodo, are you all right? You look like . . . you look awful." I crawl across the floor. "Did they hurt you?"

Frodo shakes his head wearily, then nods. "Yes." He sounds disoriented, and I reach up to rub my cheek against his foot; it's all I can do. "Yes, they did. But it's all right now." He reaches his foot around my neck, tracing as best he can. A streak of warm, new blood lines my skin.

I stare up at him, and suddenly this alternate story of a world hits me. "It's not all right! They have the Ring!"

He hesitates, then nods to the opposite side of the room. "Minah, Sting is over there, and so is Iorhael. Sting is unsheathed, and if you grab it maybe one of us can cut loose."

I eye Sting, but that's going to be a pain. I turn and scramble over to an axe, face-up on the floor and locked in place. I reach my bindings around the hook of it and yank hard repeatedly until they snap, and I scramble to grab Sting. I race to Frodo's side and swipe at the ropes above him with the blade, but then after I do so I realize he's going to fall. While he shoots down a few inches I reach out and wrap my arms around him, and we both collapse to the ground with the momentum.

I wheeze with the pressure on my diaphragm, and I let him over on the ground. But even as I sit up Frodo scrambles against me; his arms wrap hard around my waist.

"It was almost like watching my mother at the bottom of the lake," he manages. His fingers rub all over my shoulders, and I embrace him back. "I never saw her, but . . . but I saw you. You were dead."

I smile against his curls, but my eyes sting anyway. "I know; I know. But it's all right—I'm here, I promise." I pull away, but that's a mistake: Frodo's eyebrows are creased, his eyes tainted with pain and tears. He lets out a relieved sigh and caresses my cheek. The situation suddenly hits me: he didn't know I would live. If I hadn't known I wouldn't have been able to think how to carry on. And somehow he sacrificed himself—I know because I have blood on my fingers from his back, and I'm fairly sure they've whipped him—to join me here, or to protect me, or something. I reach up and press his skin deeper against my cheek; I reach around and kiss his palm.

Frodo falters slightly and moves his hand. His fingers whisper against my hair, trace the curve of my brow, flicker faintly over my ear. He tilts up my chin and softly kisses my jaw. His touch is like soothing, stirring fire, igniting a growing flame in my core. I stiffen in place, and his lips part from my skin. He glances up for a fleeting moment before pressing another kiss to my forehead. That one slips away as well, only for another kiss to brush the tip of my nose. I stagger to breathe, unsure how to take this. His hands subconsciously cup my shoulders, and his lips travel to my cheek, up to my temple, to my hair, again to my jaw, and finally caress for a faint moment the corner of my mouth, so close I almost could kiss him back, that I could certainly imagine his lips tenderly pressed against mine . . . and that touch is something I want.

"You said you loved me too," he whispers, allowing his forehead to rest on my own.

I swallow, unsure where to take this. Frodo leans down close to me, and his kiss is a breath away from mine. Then I stiffen, and he stops.

"Frodo, the Ring!" I stand abruptly, and Frodo stares after me. He slowly gets up, shaking his head. He grabs my wrist.

"It's on the stairs," he says quietly. "I dropped it when the orcs came. They were dragging you away, and when I got caught I knew they would search me. I broke it off of me; it's safe by Shelob's cave." He reaches up and rubs my shoulder hopefully. "It's all right. We'll go back and get it."

My eyes flicker to him, then down to the floor. He's looking expectant, but I can't . . . I just can't give it to him, not right now, probably not ever.

"Come on," I say, avoiding what I know he wants. He sets a hint of a glare on his face and follows me briskly down the stairs of Cirith Ungol; I think at this point armor would be ridiculous on one or both of us, so I don't stop to retrieve any. Or, at least, that's what I tell myself as I scramble away from this situation.

Frodo attempts to make conversation while we run to back to Shelob's cave, past the orc bodies and through dark stone, towards the tunnel again.

"Minah . . ."

"We're so close," I say. "I know; I'm ready for this to be over as well."

"Please, listen to me."

"Frodo, we've got to focus on the quest."

When I spot the Ring, I leap on the chance to go grab it. I hurry forward, and then Frodo steps in front of me, halting me.

"Minah. I have no desire to tell you this, but I need you to stop now . . . for me," he says, his eyes strained. I was worried he would do this, and now I'm a little stuck. "If you never listen to me again, I need you to hear me out now."

I sigh and take a step back. He nods, lowering his hand. "That's better. Please; I told you that you reminded me of my mother, that I loved you, and you said it was like family." He shakes his head. "That's just not what it is." He reaches forward and wraps his fingers around my hand, tugging down. I could pretend not to know what he wants, but I kneel down before him anyway. He reaches forward and sifts his free fingers through my hair; his deliberate, hopeful eyes trap me. "You mean the world to me. I've known that for a long time, and I've known that perhaps I mean more to you than you let on."

I shake my head; why did I have to fall in love with an analyst?

"Minah," he insists. He tips up my chin. "I'm begging you, please, love me. I don't command you to do it; I wish I could, but that's not something I _would_ do. I ask you to accept me for what you know is me. I ask you to let me be the one you want, because you—you matter more to me than anything in this world." He lifts my hand to his lips and kisses it deeply. "Please . . . do you love me?"

I nod hurriedly; this needs to stop. We have to get to Mordor. Once we finish the quest I can be out of this life, out of these horribly unfair circumstances.

"I do." Frodo's eyes brighten for a moment, and he leans in to kiss me . . . but I brace my hand against his chest and push him back. He gives me a perplexed stare.

I continue then. "I do," I repeat, "but I can't. Frodo, it wouldn't work. I'm a human, a human from another world with no knowledge of what to do here. You're a hobbit with a quest . . . with permanent scars, with a life that you will live without me." I shake my head, staring at the ground. Tears prickle at my eyes, and soon begin to flow as I realize with a sinking feeling what I've done; my hand falls from his chest. "Gandalf was right. He said we would get attached, and—and I didn't think it was possible. But Frodo, you're right too: I've fallen in love with you." My head lifts. "And that wasn't my job. I shouldn't have done it; I should have stayed in Rivendell, or stayed in the background, or stayed in myself, or stayed away from you, or—,"

Frodo grabs my face, and I almost worry he's going to crush his lips against mine, but he does no such thing. He breathes heavily as though he wants to, and his lips part and his gaze flickers to my mouth, but he won't, I know. He looks too afraid, too understanding.

"You're right." He lowers his hands from my face and backs away, abruptly picking the Ring from off the ground. He slips it casually in his trousers pocket and turns back towards Mordor, leaving me on my knees against the rock. "On with the quest, then."


	21. But I Can Carry You!

**Diem Kieu: Ja, but that's okay. :) Thanks so much! The plot thickens . . . O.O Oh, I'm sure you'll do great! I'll be excited to come read! DFTYA!**

 **Jayla Fire Gal: Yes, exactly! :D And hopefully we can push the feels. X)**

 **Me And Not You 1001: Weeelll . . . I can guarantee a couple of those things will happen . . . and some of those things will happen in the sequel . . . good luck with the next couple of chapters! O.o**

The journey through Mordor for the start is rather predictable, save that I make the attempt repeatedly to apologize to him. I feel at fault for leading him astray this entire time, or at least trying to get to know him, making the effort and not knowing if he would feel the way for me that he does. Frodo dismisses it, and at last I decide it must be irritating him to bring it up. I quietly step back.

This armor is insanely heavy, and our ordeal with the orcs doesn't help. But when I notice the line of blood on Frodo's neck, my strength suddenly returns: this is no raw skin right now. The blood is thick on the outside, dripping down to his chest. After I pretend to start a fight, I drag him across the rocky ground hurriedly, Iorhael in my hand and Sting by my side.

Mount Doom is all the way across the land of Mordor. I can see Barad-Dur as well, but I don't focus on that. I get right down to ridding Frodo of his helmet, and then I realize neither of us has either of the packs; Sam has both.

"Curses," I hiss to myself.

Frodo stares up, his eyes flickering. I bite my lip—I never wanted to see him go through all of this.

"What of it?" he rasps. Before I can protest, he slips off his breastplate and throws it into the lava. I wince at the sight of his blood covering his torso, from his neck as well as his back and staining the necklace of the Ring; the wicked thing is the only part of him untouched. I can't watch for long.

I throw my own helmet into the little crevice and bitterly kick the rest of my gear inside. "We have no shirt for you."

"I'll manage," he insists, turning back towards the mountain. He makes it a total of eight steps before he begins to stagger, and I race to his side. He collapses into my arms, and I shudder at the imprint on my hands now. I bring him once again to his feet, and we start walking again.

I shake my head every time he seems to shove forward. "Frodo, you're killing yourself. I'll take it the rest of the way."

His eyebrows narrow with sudden conviction. "I won't give up on my quest. I offered to bring the Ring here and destroy it; it is my responsibility until it is finished." His eyes flicker up to me, and he presses forward faster than I do, grabbing at the Ring. I increase my pace to keep up with him. "Besides," he mutters, "I don't want you to get hurt."

"Well, I don't want you dead either," I counter stubbornly. Frodo seems to ignore me, but I know he's internalized it. Someone that intuitive doesn't just let these things slip. "I may not be able to love you like you want, or like I want, but . . . but maybe things will change after the Ring is gone. Maybe if we get out of Mordor I can find a way to stay, become a hobbit and be with you."

My voice softens as I speak, and Frodo's shoulders begin to slump. He slows to a halt and stares back at me. I approach him and finger some of the blood from his shoulders. He smiles weakly. "Perhaps we could." He staggers against a nearby stone, breathing deeply, and reaches to his side for his waterskin. How he managed to keep it, I'm not sure, but I know why I have mine: I specifically went looking for it while we were imprisoned in the tower. I slip it out of my belt and lower it to him. He accepts it hungrily and takes most of it before he hesitates.

"Minah . . . we won't have any for the return journey," he says.

I lean over him. "I know. But if the quest is that important to you, it's that important to me. And even if it ends here in Mordor—," My voice catches, and I cough. "I want you to know that I wouldn't spend the last moments of my life with anybody else."

Frodo reaches up, and his fingers brush my neck. I grab his wrists and bring him to his feet, guiding him over the rocky ground towards the volcano. We're over halfway there now, but soon we need to rest again. This time Frodo, drenched in blood and sweat, tugs weakly on my hand until I sit beside him. His head slacks, almost lifeless, against my lap. I realize we left the lembas back with Sam, even if Gollum didn't throw it over, and he hasn't eaten in almost two days.

I trace his hair back. "Frodo, are you sure you can keep going?"

His exhausted eyes roll up to meet mine. His lungs are moving too fast; he's expending what little energy he has just to breathe in this hot, sulfuric wasteland. "I have to," he manages, and he moves to stand. I wrap my hands around his torso and lift him to his feet; my fingers are stained profusely when I let go. If this keeps up he'll bleed to death before we even reach the mountain. I tear my gaze away from the whip gashes in his back; I want so badly to clean them off, to heal him and let him know that I care.

Sauron spots us briefly, as was done in the film, but it terrifies me. I bowl Frodo over, hoping I haven't hurt him. I shudder on top of him as the Eye passes over us; it feels like the radiation from a bonfire, up close and so powerful it penetrates my skin. No wonder Mordor is so warm, if he's giving off so much frequency.

Frodo shivers underneath me, but I don't think it's from any temperature. I lift him to his feet and hold him there for a while. He tries to shove past me, but I lock him in place; he's far too weak to fight me.

"Frodo, please. Let me carry you."

Frodo hesitates in place, and I allow my grip to slacken slightly. He takes that as an opportunity and forces his way out of my hands; I wonder if I've pushed him away from me, basically rejecting him when he tried to tell me how he feels. The blotches of his blood all over my shirt stir my stomach, and I can't help but let my gaze wander to the deep gashes in his back.

He blindly stumbles forward, forging his way over the sharp rocks. I glance down at my shoes; our feet are probably about the same size. He should take them.

I catch up to him, but the heat and lack of sustenance are getting to me; I can't move very quickly. It feels like I'm shoving, mentally and physically, through molasses. I can't think very well, but at least I can figure to help Frodo.

Were I functioning mentally, I might have asked him before I sit him down on the rocks and shove my shoes over his feet. He tries to push me off, but we're both a little out of it for that. I realize this walk through Mordor has been longer than I anticipated, hours beyond what I thought. I struggle to my feet and offer Frodo my hand; he takes it.

We're in the shadow of the mountain, I realize. I stare up at the volcano, towering almost beyond my vision from here. Frodo doesn't even look up; he just keeps pressing forward. The ground quickly grows steep beneath our feet, and I wince every time I take a step for how unprotected my feet are. Frodo seems to work rather well with the shoes, likely taking no notice of the novelty of them.

We walk for what seems like hours, vast rock stretching behind us and hopefully the crack of Doom just above us . . . but when I look we've barely dented the distance we have to travel.

Hopelessness swells in my heart, much as I know we can keep going, but my limbs are beyond numb; they're jelly now. Frodo stumbles forward, only to collapse against the rock. I ache everywhere, and my vision is growing blurry. I crash to the ground as well, some two feet behind him; I can't go any further. My muscles won't respond, and I'm drifitng off to heavy dehydration. My eyelids flicker closed . . . just let me stay here. My throat burns, as do my eyes and my skin. My feet are cut and bleeding—I just now begin to realize how much they sting.

Then I hear a desperate groan and scraping ahead of me. I remain in place until I realize it's Frodo through the murk of my agony, and my eyes snap open. He's dragging himself up the mountainside, collapsing and sliding back against his progress on occasion. Finally he drops almost to my level, and he appears to give up. He shudders again, drawing into himself. He uses what little energy he has left to shield his shoulders; I lose sight of his face as he buries it in the rock.

I attempt to drag myself this time, propel myself with Iorhael, but I haven't the strength. If I can just get to him, maybe I can carry him; maybe I'll have the motivation if I know what I'm doing.

But my arms have nothing. The one still aches from Cirith Ungol a few days ago. Or has it been weeks? Months? Is there a life outside of this awful place?

Then, as I study Frodo's limp form on the ground, I do remember. I don't remember much, but I remember Frodo. I remember meeting him, holding him that first night when his Morgul stab plagued him with cold. I'm living memory now. I remember talking with him, laughing with him, as we journey across Middle Earth; Sam, and how much Frodo loves him; the pain growing in Frodo's eyes every passing day with the Ring; his pity on Gollum and his care for his friends. I'm moving forward now. His conviction, the blaze of his eyes, when he talks about his quest; his irritating, yet somehow endearing, condescension; his guileless desire to do the best he can; every tear that trickles down his face, when I'm in danger or he remembers his mother Primula.

Before I can convince myself that I'm not strong enough, I've reached him, and I sling Iorhael around my back. I tenderly wrap my arms around his bloodied torso. I care not that my clothes and skin are now covered in it; if I can help him I will. I lift the corner of my shirt to wipe some of the blood away.

Frodo slacks in my grip. I swallow as I whisper to him.

"Do you remember the Shire, Frodo? Do you remember what you told me about it?" I remember his voice then, how different he looked and how different he must have felt. Tears trail down my face in spite of myself. "You said you wanted to save it more than anything; it must be beautiful. Do you remember Bag End? All your books, the candles?" I pause. "Your mother? Bilbo? The fireworks, Frodo."

Frodo staggers a breath, and his eyes sink open. He lifts his hand shakily, and it rests against my neck. I lift him into my arms, holding his head against my heart. I almost don't hear his whisper pierce the air.

"No, Minah." He swallows. "There's nothing. It's all fire, all of it. He's burned everything." Frodo shudders violently in my grip, and his fingers tense around my skin. I suck in a breath from the pressure. "He burned you . . . he burned Sam." Frodo's eyes widen suddenly. "The Ring . . . he can see!"

My eyes turn with a livid glare to the Ring on his neck, that little band of beautiful gold that's made his life a living curse for so long. I barely recognize my voice as my own for the pain and conviction in it. "Then we'll destroy it." His eyebrows crease worriedly, and his breathing intensifies with my growing energy. "Come on! I can't carry it for you . . . but I can carry you!" I've always wanted to say that to him, but right now it doesn't feel like a thrill of realization or giddiness; it's a conviction in truth from deep within me. I love him, and I want the best for him. At the moment, the best is destroying the Ring and showing him that, small as he is, he changed the course of the future.

I lift him into my arms; my hands are soaked and stained, so I almost drop him, but I manage to turn, fueled by an inner desire and nothing more. I feed on my heavy assertions that Frodo _must_ survive, that he has to complete his quest and find happiness again. Images of the Grey Havens fill my mind, of his smile and how healthy he looks when he's out of Mordor. With every step I force hope into my body until it begins to feed itself, drawing on the image of a happier Frodo, on the feeling of a restored world and the end of a war. I'm here to heal him; I am a Baymax, and I need be nothing more.

Before I know it, I step from rocky stone onto a smooth platform. My eyes widen; we're here. I stare up at the archway around me—it's the doorway to the Crack of Doom.

I quickly lower Frodo to the ground, and he teeters in place for a moment before bracing himself against the wall. His eyes flicker open and shut, and I grab his shoulder.

"Come on. Just a few more steps," I coax. I reach forward and kiss his cheek hopefully . . . and he begins walking immediately. His eyes are a tad brighter now, and hope lines his features. Even his shoulders square a little as he approaches the edge of the precipice. I fear the moment he turns around and tells me that he won't finish his quest, but I through the thought away; he has to finish it. He must.

Before he's even halfway, Frodo collapses against the ground again, shivering and shuddering. He draws into himself as though he's just been tased, and I race to his side.

"Frodo!" I grab his shoulder, and he shakes his head rapidly, rising to his knees. He's trembling; he has blood on his cheek now as he strains to stand. He drags himself up with one foot, and I lift him to his feet.

He lifts the Ring off of his neck, throwing the chain aside. He moves to drop it in, and he doesn't hesitate even to glance up at it.

A hiss sounds behind me, and before I even turn I call out Frodo's name. He glances up, and Gollum leaps over me, yanking on Frodo's shoulders until he collides with the ground. Frodo scrambles against him, trying to get a clear shot into the lava, but Gollum pushes him so far from the edge that when he throws it, it clatters against the stone.

I leap forward to grab the Ring, but Gollum lands on top of me, wrestling me back. He's so much smaller than I am, but his fingers braced around my neck are enough to cut off my attention from the Ring. I strain against him, and Frodo feebly reaches for the Ring. Then his gaze flickers up to mine, and his eyes widen with realization. I want to cry out, tell him to leave it be, to destroy the Ring and get out of here; I can handle Gollum.

But, of course, I can't: I'm being choked from behind.

In his haste to stand, Frodo flicks the Ring over the edge. Gollum squawks madly and leaps after it, but he doesn't let go of me. Frodo reaches for me; he breaks away from my immediate vision as Gollum drags me right over the rim of the rock, and I fall.

My world spins with rock and fire for a moment before I reach out my hand initially and catch a jutting stone off the side of the drop into the lava. My breath shudders out as I stare down at the extent of the air below me; I'm not in a position like this very often.

Somehow the fear numbs my ability to think. What if I let go? What would the lava feel like? Would it be soothing as it swallowed me, a warm descent into death until my nerves were boiled like noodles and I couldn't process anymore? Would it be faster, more painful? What would Frodo do?

"Minah!"

I stare up at the cliff's edge distantly, until Frodo scrambles into view. My eyes widen, and I reach for another handhold. I don't know if he's tall enough to reach me from there.

"Come on! Minah!" He extends a bloodied hand, but I can't reach it. I stretch up as far as my arms will allow, but I need another three inches at least. I slack back, exhausted.

I shake my head. "It's no use, Frodo." I look up for some opportunity, some way to climb out, but there's nothing to grab on to. I slack down, glancing at what is inevitable when my arm tires, which shouldn't be too long at this rate.

Then Frodo backs away, and soon returns with Iorhael. He extends it to me, and I grab the end. He yanks me up over the edge, and he throws the stick back. He gives out a slight moan and wraps his arms solidly around me.

I gasp for air, then laugh, relieved. "Frodo, you did it. You destroyed it."

He nods against my shoulder. He reaches up then to kiss my cheek, and I hear a rumble behind us. I spin around; the lava is rising.

I grab his torso and lift him to his feet. I scoop up Iorhael as we race out, pushing Frodo ahead of me. He can hardly move, apparently, so I do my best to keep either of us from stumbling. We break free from the gate of the Crack of Doom, and I lead him onto an outcropping of rock.

Frodo gasps for air, then stands upright. His lungs heave powerfully; it takes all I have not to bring him down to the ground and hold him until all that blood and sweat is gone.

"It's gone," he breathes disbelievingly. He stares up at me, his eyes wide and his smile content. "It's done!"

I nod. "Yes, it is, Frodo," I say gently. He did it; he let it go. He destroyed it. It suddenly strikes me how amazing that is, and I lean forward to embrace him. He falls easily into it, and his hands roam my back softly. He buries his face in my hair, and the cooling warmth of his blood against my neck causes me to stiffen.

Frodo pulls away. "Minah?"

I shake my head and stagger to a sitting position behind him. "This is the end," I say, glancing around at the mountain.

Frodo nods and settles next to me. He nestles up against my side; I initially put my arm around him. "But you told me you wouldn't spend your last moments with anyone else . . . and I think the same. I'd rather be with you than still be in the Shire and never have met you."

I smile. "Thank you. I'm glad to be here with you, Frodo, at the end of all of this."

"Of course, if I were still back in the Shire Sauron would be ruling now," he says.

I laugh at that, then brace his jaw between my fingers and turn him to look at me. "But he's not, and it's all because of you. Frodo, you did it. You saved Middle Earth; you won." I swallow, tears stinging my face. "You won."

 **Thank you all for reading, but I will sadly not be updating this Saturday, nor will I be updating the first two weeks of May. :( I will be in Wisconsin, Couer d'Laine, and Provo on those respective weekends for competitions and a conference. Thanks again! :)**


	22. Our Last Story

**Diem Kieu: Yeahh! :D I love that chapter . . . *sigh* A little more fluffiness later, but not enough until the sequel. :P Thanks! DFTYA! Hope this next one is good too. :)**

 **Me And Not You 1001: Thanks so much! :D I hope the ending is-okay, the ending isn't going to be good . . . but I hope you like it anyway. XD**

 **Jayla Fire Gal: YAY! Thank you. :D Happy Easter! Let's see if we can wind up or down the tension here a little bit . . .**

 **A/N: Actually, this chapter is closer to the end than I thought. O.o This is actually the last chapter aside from a few-hundred word epilogue, so sorry I didn't give enough warning. So breathe for a minute before going in. I didn't realize we were so close to done *SIGH* I loathe it when things end.**

Things go about as expected from there: we fall unconscious on the mountain and are miraculously rescued by eagles. Sam, apparently, found his way down from Cirith Ungol and persisted to believe we were still alive in Mordor. His leg was well on its way to healing with proper care; how he managed to get down the stairs I didn't know, until he told me that he crawled down backwards with one foot and both hands until the eagles spotted him, right at the end of the battle. He'd managed to get down five steps.

I leave Frodo alone until after the coronation, when we're on our way back to the Shire. They've loaned me a beautiful roan; as I ride, I'm sad I didn't get to see Frodo's excitement when he found Gandalf alive. The wizard told me he would come when he could to send me home. I decide to tell him then that I don't want to go back, that Frodo means too much to me.

But I know what he'll say.

Sam offers to let me sleep in his kitchen. Merry and Pippin offer on Frodo's behalf, but he and I both know that isn't a good idea. In spite of the fact that I now live with the Gamgees', I visit Bag End often. Once we arrive home, to the home I've never been to, Frodo abruptly invites me into his house. He says he has something to talk to me about.

Of course, it's about us, about what happened in Cirith Ungol. As he feeds me biscuits, he asks me if what I told him was true. I insist as sincerely as I can that all of it is, that I do love him and that I wish I could spend my dying days with him. But we both seem to come to the conclusion that my size is a little bit of a problem, or a lot of a problem depending on which of us you are (Frodo thinks it should make no difference), and that Gandalf will not accept it. There is the matter of me getting home, even if no time has lapsed there.

Frodo accepts that, and we both sorrowfully leave it where it is. I still speak to him, daily, all waking hours that I can spend. I'm not helping out much at the Gamgees', so I come to Bag End to help him with his garden on behalf of their pay. I enjoy every minute I spend with him.

But I know the ropes are getting tighter, and the rip is only going to hurt all the worse for it.

I spend years there, tormenting years that Frodo and I spend as distanced as we can manage. It's the hardest thing I've ever done, leaving him to know I will never see him again as soon as any day has passed. I keep him comforted when he's cold in the context of his Morgul stab, and he comforts me on those days when my neck plagues me with stings and bites. I didn't think about the consequences of being stung by Shelob, but I'm glad that's one less thing to hurt Frodo.

One night Gandalf comes. I'm sitting outside Bag End, plucking weeds out of the wet ground. It rained earlier, and now the ground is perfect even if the sun is gone. I hear Frodo talking to Gandalf.

"Valinor? Gandalf, I don't need to go to Valinor. I thank you for your offer, but there's something simpler you could do to help me."

I slip up closer to the wall and listen in for a moment. I only hear Frodo ask Gandalf to let me stay, to let me . . . well, let me be a Baggins.

I bite my lip and sink down onto the ground when Gandalf refuses profusely. With not so much as a desire to hear the rest of the conversation I leap up from place and run back to the Gamgees'. I knew this would happen, but somehow I just can't take it; I can't let Frodo go.

For hours that night I sit up on my bed, hugging my knees close to me and letting my tears fall into them. So I didn't understand him as much when we were on the quest as I do now, but that only makes it hurt worse. I could list his flaws; I could list the irritations we give each other. I could name every wrong thing he's done, but I don't care. Those things aren't the things that matter to me most: he is. The good things, the sweetness of his character and how much he cares for me, how much he cares for those that are close to him, his conviction—I know listing these things will only make it hurt more.

But I do it anyway. I can't bear to let love go.

Frodo comes in to awaken me. I've refused to let him kiss me this length of time, because I know it will do more than hurt if I do. I don't trust myself with him.

So, that being the case, he kisses my cheek whenever he sees me. He's respectful of what I feel, because he understands, apparently. I'm not sure if he feels my exact fears, but he understands that, regardless of what race we are, we care about each other and are very comfortable with each other.

"Minah, it's time," he says, biting his lip.

I want to feign ignorance, but I might as well take it. I nod to him, and he extends a hand to lift me off the bed. I stoop out of the house, hugging Gaffer on the way. Sam and Rosie live up at Bag End now; I go up to thank them as well for all they've done.

I get in the little carriage with Frodo and Bilbo to go to the Grey Havens. I'm a little tall for it, but I manage to fit. Frodo won't stop watching me with that analytical stare again, that understanding and intuitive desire I've come to love so much. I tear up just by looking at him, but I don't take my eyes away: I'll never see him again, I know.

When we get out he offers a hand to me, and he leads me down to the harbor. But as Bilbo greets the elves, Frodo nods to Gandalf and takes me aside. He ducks with me into some trees off of the shore. His eyes look a little worn as well.

"Frodo, are you going to go with them?"

Frodo hesitates. "I . . . I don't know. I'm going to decide after you leave; it really won't make any difference to you, will it?"

I shake my head, staring at the ground. I nearly tell him that I came to ensure he didn't go to the Grey Havens, but I can't say it that way, really; it might impact the turn of the rest of his life. Not that we haven't already messed everything up for each other.

Frodo sucks in a breath and lets it go. "Gandalf will put you to sleep, and you'll wake up at home, at the same time that you left." He swallows and braces up my jaw until I hesitantly look at him. His eyes grow pleading. "I wish beyond anything that I could spend the rest of my life with you. Don't forget me, please."

"I'll never forget you," I insist. "I couldn't even if I wanted to, which I don't."

He asks what I'll do when I get back, and I'm a little shaky in my response: I'll finish my education.

"What about that one man you wish to take care of?" he says. He doesn't sound bitter; he's too guileless for that. He sounds interested, and a little hurt. "Will you find him?"

That opens up the floodgates. Tears trace down my cheeks, and I seal my eyes shut as he brushes the tears away. I'm going to miss his touch almost more than anything. "I already have," I whisper, embracing him hard. "And I've been honored to be his Baymax for so long."

He speaks softly. "Baymax . . . that's what Galadriel said." Frodo then nestles into my shoulder. He holds me for another few minutes, thanking me under his breath for being there. He buries his hand in my hair, caressing my head. He pulls away at last, staring deeply at me. I'm intimidated again like I haven't been in years.

"Minah, can I ask you to do one thing for me?" he murmurs. "No more commands after this."

I nod, ready to do anything for him.

"Close your eyes," he says.

I do so.

"And hold still." He sighs shakily. "This is a gift I wish to give you."

I hold up my hands, but he gently pushes them back down and braces his hand against my cheek. He brushes my hair back, and my heart beats faster, steadily growing more wild. His face nears mine, and my legs turn to jelly, my lungs barely able to move, soaked in the flutters of my pulse.

His soft mouth faintly touches my own, and the stunning contact is gone before I can even kiss him back. I open my eyes to thank him, but his gaze has that glimmer of need to it. He abruptly comes again, solidly pressing a more desperate kiss to my lips. A moan escapes him when I respond, but it sounds like a whimper. Soon I'm dizzy, having never known something so simple but so magical and so warm, so . . . so . . . Frodo.

It seems like the shortest of eternities when he finally pulls away, but it's only for a brief breath of air. He comes right back, brushing his lips against mine. Electricity flickers through my fingers and toes as he wraps his arms around my back, his hands tracing lines up and down my shoulders. He kisses me repeatedly, taking me in twice when I try to back away and tell him that it's time to let go; his lips taste of apples, and I starkly remember home.

I don't want to let go, and I know he's going to have a harder time with it, although why I'm unsure. He's always been the more sentimental, committed one of the two of us, but right now at least he's not invading me.

He sighs again softly when his lips finally ease away from mine.

"I love you," he whispers. He pecks my cheek, and a sudden exhaustion floods me. I stagger to the ground, and he holds me close to him as he lowers me gently onto his lap. "You've taken care of me like no one else ever has." He bites his lip, and his hand traces my hair back. "Please be safe."

I smile and reach up this time to kiss him. He responds softly, cupping me close. "And I love you too. Do what you feel is right. I hope we meet again by some miracle." I yawn, overrun with exhaustion.

The last thing I see is a blurry image of his face before I'm gone.

 **Well, thank you all for sticking with me and Minah . . . specifically thanks to Diem Kieu, Me And Not You 1001, Jayla Fire Gal, EtheGoldenSnitch, and all you other amazing reviewers, favorites, and followers. Be sure to check out the sequel, since the resolution is better. :) Grit your teeth for the ending of this one, and let me know what you think of the kiss scene!**


	23. Epilogue

Life goes back to normal. It's about that abrupt and that confusing, yet somehow the same way I've lived since I graduated. I end up buying a house in Vermont and moving out there, all the while completely distracted by thoughts of Frodo and the kiss that still lingers like the taste of apples on my lips. Then I realize perhaps that's why I love them now more than I ever have.

I spend my time writing, working, and fighting for my degree during that time. I look briefly for someone to replace Frodo in my life, but no one is so guileless, so kind to me. Although most of them aren't so condescending, they really don't match him. I don't manage to find anyone, although I do manage to receive my degree and get a book published in a handful of years. I buy a home in Ireland then, as I've always wanted to.

But even there, I can't forget him. I almost order myself to stop buying apples; I'm addicted to them. Eventually I numb myself to the reminder of that warm, soft kiss, but I can't prevent every pang of sorrow.

As I sit there editing my most recent story one rainy day, the doorbell rings, and I leave my current apple to go and answer it. When I get there the mail truck is driving away. I stare down at the huge package on my porch, but I'm fairly sure I haven't ordered anything that huge.

I heft it inside; it isn't heavy, but it's longer than I am tall. I set it down on my main room table, a beautiful, brown oak piece with black legs. My house is generally dark, but I love it that way. I've decorated it in the way I remember Bag End: wood for everything, although I also have glass everywhere, and there are books, parchments, and quill pens all over the place.

When I can't just break the package open, I run for my pocketknife. It has no return address, and I slit it open in confusion.

It's wrapped in some kind of fur, and there's a note on top. I flick it open and read it.

 _You left this in Minas Tirith. I'm not sure how you could forget an object of this size, but I will leave it to the fact that perhaps you do this often. – Gandalf_

I lurch in place and rip open the fur; Iorhael is inside, washed and polished. I slip it out, gawking; this must be some practical joke. But the hilt clicks open, and the pearl-white blade sweeps from within. I laugh, tears falling down my face. I almost wanted to dismiss my interactions with Frodo as a dream, but I know they were too real. Now I have physical proof.

Then there's another note on the bottom.

I slip it into my hands and open it, jokingly assuring myself that there must be a return address in here. My heart catches when I recognize the calligraphic work.

 _Minah, I have come to the Grey Havens with Gandalf. I hope his note finds you; I miss you so much. They asked me what I wanted to heal, and I didn't know what to tell them. My decision is now at the bottom of this box; may it assist you in some way._

 _Difficult as it is to say, your kiss stays with me. I have not forgotten you, and I can only pray you haven't forgotten me either. May we meet again._

 _All my love, Frodo Baggins_

 **TO BE CONTINUED**

 **Ending/Sequel - You Mean the World to Me - Due May 27, 2017**


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